


Whatever morning brings

by isamariposa



Category: Rome (TV 2005), The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 2 millennia of pining, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Ambiguous Relationships, Anal Sex, Bible Quotes, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Character Death Fix, Deities, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Groping, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Older Man/Younger Man, Original Character(s), Past Lives, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Pseudo-Incest, Reincarnation, casual Fitzjames/Le Vesconte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: Brutus spends his life torn between disquiet, distaste and desperate pining for Caesar, leading to his infamous betrayal. In his own final moments, he raises a plea: “Jupiter Maximus, take pity on me. If by Your grace there is a way to atone for what I did to him, I beg You: let me do so in the afterlife.”His wish is granted.Chapter 1: RomeChapter 2: Renaissance (1500s Venice)Chapter 3: The Terror (1840s)Chapter 4: World War I (1916)Chapter 5: Present dayMind the tags and warnings! Father-son vibes gone wrong.The Terror bingo: ‘whatever morning brings’
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Captain Sir John Franklin, Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger/Julius Caesar
Comments: 69
Kudos: 91
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Rome (1st Century BCE)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I’ve researched (this is not my first work in a Roman setting), it was acceptable to sleep with men if you were an adult citizen as long as you weren’t the passive partner (ie bottoming or giving head). Marcus would receive his first toga when he was about 16. It was a bit annoying not being able to use info about the historical Brutus because IRL he was only 15 years younger than Caesar, making him 40 (!) at the time of the assassination and not the doe-eyed 20-something of the show. I tried to use as much as would fit.
> 
> This part came out rather tell-heavy with not a lot of dialogue but the style does change later on. Again, a warning about the problematic themes throughout this work, as detailed in the tags. I made all GIFs used in this fic. See here for [more gifs](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/tagged/roman-soulmates).
> 
> Thank you so much, Dundy, for your enthusiasm and help!! I wouldn’t have written this if you hadn’t replied to me on Discord re: the actors’ reunion in The Terror. And as always, thank you kriegskrieg for listening!

* * *

_1st Century BCE_

  
  


Marcus doesn't hate Caius Julius Caesar at first, not quite. 

Not at all.

It's misplaced childhood admiration - his mother's lover, tall and strong, regal even in a simple tunic, Mars Himself when armed to the teeth. He crouches behind a pillar of the peristylium whenever Caesar visits their home to be able to watch him at ease, in silence, undisturbed. He resents the booming laughter and the loud voice, and yet he cannot help being fascinated by this man, so unlike the male slaves, and so unlike his own uncles, even though they too are Roman.

* * *

As Marcus grows older, he becomes aware of the whispers that he might be Caesar's son. He despises the notion. He stares at himself in a tall mirror the day he receives his first toga, searching for any signs that would confirm a parentage in his still boyish face. He finds nothing. He resembles his mother, but there's a hint of someone else in his features too, someone brown-haired and brown-eyed. He barely remembers his father: he was often away from Rome, but he had a soft voice, and he was very tall. A true Junii. Marcus decides he looks like him, the blurry man from his memories, and not at all like the unpalatable Caesar who still visits his mother's bedroom regularly. 

Whenever his sordid business is done, Caesar goes through great lengths to speak to him over a cup of wine in one of the smaller triclina of the house. His friendly manner is unnerving: he calls him Brutus, as if he were a grown-up, as if he already were one of his peers. And Marcus tries so hard to appear educated and interesting but he knows he is a bumbling, red-faced mess trying to quote Plato and failing miserably.

"You've spent too much time with your nose in your Greek books," Caesar teases (and not until many years later will Marcus understand it was designed to put him at ease, and not to hurt him). "I think it's high time you start thinking like a Roman instead."

The jibe wounds him for many reasons, but the worst of it is this: when he was thirteen, he read a text describing how Greek boys were regularly taken as lovers by older men. It was a document his tutor discouraged, calling it un-roman, but Marcus read it anyway, quickly and in secret. He regretted it later. Not because of the content - the Greece he read about was no more, and was now part of Rome in all its greatness. But his overactive imagination started reeling that very night: if Marcus were Greek, and he were to be penetrated by someone, whom would he choose? The answer came to him like a roll of thunder when he was still handling himself under the covers, thirsty like the boy he was then: he would be taken by Caesar, if he could. 

Even though he is now older, he remembers this when Caesar meets his gaze, and he wishes he could die.

* * *

But then: Marcus grows up in earnest. Marcus takes over his uncle's business, Marcus travels, Marcus has money of his own. He returns to Rome with a newfound confidence - some even call it arrogance. He can talk to Caesar for hours and not blush once, though his heart never does stop galloping wildly whenever in his presence. He's old enough to dismiss it now: he's taken lovers, he's fucked women, and he's thinking of marrying. He knows how these things work. 

And Caesar is not once improper, never suggests anything: he is Marcus's friend, or so he says loudly whenever they meet at a banquet or in the Forum. In return, and maybe out of spite, Marcus begins describing him "like a father" to anyone willing to listen. A father is safe, a father is inconspicuous. No one would make the leap and mistake his affection for lust. Not even himself: Marcus is so far from that childish admiration that he tells himself he might be diametrically across on the other side of the affection radius. Caesar is a little ridiculous in his pompousness and his ideas for greatness, and Marcus smiles, condescending but indulgent like he would treat an elderly man when in truth Caesar is barely older than forty.

"You should come with me to Gaul," Caesar tells him when he is just about to set off for his next journey. "I could think of no greater joy than to have you fight alongside me. You and I are made for great things, my dearest Brutus."

"Are we now," Marcus answers, his tone a little more seductive than he intended. If Caesar notices it, he doesn't react. "But I'm afraid I'd make a poor spectacle of myself in a battlefield."

"You wouldn't," Caesar says, and his smile is warm and also terribly, terribly disquieting. Marcus feels a tension pooling in his belly that he hasn't felt for years. Those eyes are so sharp, so keen as they sink into his and he adds, "I've seen you fight. You'd make a deadly adversary for anyone in your path."

"I've grown soft since you last saw me fight, I'm afraid. I'm more fit for idle dinners these days."

"I wish you wouldn't do this."

Caesar puts his hand on Marcus's shoulder: a large, heavy hand, that grips him as if it belonged there. It dizzies him, so much that his voice comes out as a croak when he speaks.

"Do what?"

"Sell yourself short. You can be the man I know you to be, if only you believe it."

That piece of advice is too bold, too intimate. Marcus wants to shrug the hand off his shoulder. But he does not. After a moment, Caesar lets go with a soft pat, and he finds himself aching for the contact he lost.

"Farewell," he mumbles, the awkward boy once more, as Caesar climbs on his horse. "I hope I see you victorious."

"Of course you will," Caesar says, and winks.

* * *

He does see him victorious, some six years later. Marcus visits his cousin in Narbo, and on a whim decides to ride to Caesar's camp in the recently conquered northern territories of Gaul - disregarding the fact that it is a never-ending journey for one not used to horseback over long distances. He arrives in Alesia, sore, miserable, and feeling incredibly foolish, but Caesar is there to meet him as he unhorses: he pulls him into his arms, the embrace fiercer than Marcus expected. 

"Let me look at you," Caesar says, stepping back with admiration (admiration?) in his gaze.

"Still as ugly as ever," Marcus replies, his tone light. A decade earlier, he might have blushed. Now he looks at him squarely in the eyes, and smiles.

"Not at all," Caesar says, and something lingers in his voice, regret perhaps. Maybe he's thinking of Marcus's mother.

They dine together, seated very close in Caesar's pavilion-tent, and they speak of Britannia and the Gauls, but also of Rome and common acquaintances, and yes, of Marcus's mother. He teases Caesar about it, like an indifferent son would, while in truth loathing this topic. Later, Caesar confides in Marcus a great deal more than he should about the state of his armies - as if he were one of his most trusted friends. It's very flattering. 

But Antonius is also in the camp, insufferable as ever: speaking to him with contempt, talking over him, boasting about his repugnant sexual adventures. He offers to share his tent with Marcus for the night, who nearly chokes on his wine at the possibility, but Caesar refuses: Marcus must sleep in his pavilion, in complete comfort, as befits an esteemed guest.

At night, when all of the camp is asleep, Marcus lies wide awake in the tent. This is the closest he's ever been to Caesar, not physically but in familiarity. The torches cast a faint light over the sleeping quarters. On the other side of the tent, Caesar sleeps in his cot. He snores. Marcus never imagined he'd snore. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, his faithful slave Posca sleeps wrapped in a blanket: guarding him, ready to serve. Marcus stares and stares at this scene, _longing_ for something, but he cannot (will not) put a name on what it is.

When Marcus returns to Rome, he gets abominably drunk and spills all of Caesar's secrets to Pompeius Magnus. That is his first betrayal. It will not be the last.

* * *

After his conquest, Caesar does the unthinkable: he tramples over the Law and crosses the Rubicon with the XIII Legion, abusing his imperium over the troops and threatening not just Pompeius but the entire foundations of the Republic with this brazen act. The Senators flee Rome, and suddenly people are looking up to Marcus for guidance on what to do next. To Marcus. Whose political career until now amounts to little more than getting drunk at banquets and making snide remarks when he happens to sit in the Senate. It's his name: Lucius Junius Brutus, his illustrious forefather, founded the Republic. Whatever Marcus decides to do now carries the weight and the honor of the Junii. 

Caesar or the Republic?

Once upon a time, he'd have chosen Caesar with his eyes closed. But Caesar did not ask to be chosen. He said nothing about this when they saw each other in Alesia. He's sent messengers to Rome, back and forth, and there have been no letters for Marcus. Caesar is marching upon the City armed to the teeth, and Marcus did not cross his mind once, it seems. If he asked for his loyalty, Marcus would have given it to the death. But he did not. So Marcus, pettily perhaps, chooses to follow Pompeius in a never-ending crawl along the Eastern coasts of the now-dying Republic. Oh, but he has the perfect excuse to look crestfallen. Everyone knows, of course, that he loved Caesar as a father. Some even comment how honorable it is of Brutus to choose the Republic over love. When he lies awake at night, Marcus feels anything but honorable. He gets to wear an armor and to order soldiers around, and when there's skirmishes he fights passably well (his mother and uncles made sure he was schooled in warfare like any self-respecting patrician, evidently), but he cannot shake the feeling of being a stupid child playing at war. 

He abandons Pompeius somewhere along the coast of Greece and crawls back to Caesar's arms - figuratively, of course: he journeys on his horse with what's left of his men, and with Cicero's bitter commentary along the way.

He knew that they'd have to ask for Caesar's pardon - the humiliation unavoidable. But _he_ has to make it a thousand times more humiliating with his friendly manner, dismissing any gravitas around their absolute surrender. Marcus would rather have his scorn. He'd rather be dragged through the mud, whipped, tortured and killed in front of all the men. Instead, Caesar kisses him. Two kisses, one on each cheek. He has the power and the right to kill him, and yet he kisses him.

"My poor boy," he says, "I presented you with an impossible choice."

His strong hands rest on Marcus's shoulders. They stare at each other, Cicero forgotten, the soldiers forgotten, the world forgotten. There is nothing in the world but Caesar's gaze, rendered blurry because of Marcus's sudden tears. 

"Thank you," he stammers, horrified at the thought the tears may spill, adding to his utter humiliation. "I will not forget your kindness."

It's three days before they see each other alone. Posca comes fetch Marcus very late at night in his tent, his wry little smile betraying his amusement.

"My master requires your presence," he says. "Forgive a foolish old slave for making sure you're unarmed."

"Of course I'm unarmed," Marcus says, rising from his cot. He is only wearing a light tunic to bed, there is nowhere to conceal a weapon under it. He wonders if this request derives from Posca's overzeal or because of his master's mistrust.

"Silly me," Posca says, sounding sarcastic, and if he were anyone else's slave, Marcus would strike him for his impertinence.

Caesar too is wearing nothing but a light tunic when he joins him in his tent. His smile radiates energy despite the late hour. Marcus sits in front of him on a low seat. Posca, now studiously straight-faced, pours some wine for Marcus in a golden cup, then steps out of the tent to give them the illusion of privacy - though everyone knows he'll be standing just outside. Marcus stares down at his wine. He isn't thirsty. He also doesn't want to meet Caesar's gaze. He focuses on Caesar's hands instead, large and unfretful as they cross over on his lap. That _is_ a really light tunic he is wearing. It does not leave much to the imagination. Marcus shouldn't be looking at that.

"Pompeius was seen embarking to cross to Egypt," Caesar says, after a long silence. "Alone."

No wonder he's in a good mood. Marcus forces himself to drink a sip of wine. There was nothing Magnus about Pompeius during their pathetic flight to Greece. Bumbling fools, all of them. 

"We'll go after him, I suppose," he says.

"I'll go after him. You will return to Rome."

Startled, Marcus glances up at him at last. Caesar looks very calm and not at all hostile despite what he's just stated. In all fairness, there's nothing surprising in this decision. Who would risk going to war with a traitor? Marcus imagines what it might be like if he returns to Rome, and tries not to flinch visibly. The town crier announcing his pardon in front of a crowd of disinterested plebeians: that Marcus Junius Brutus has returned from Greece with his tail between his legs by the grace of Caesar.

"I understand," he says, his voice a little unsteady. He clears his throat and sets the wine cup down. "If you have any letters you wish me to carry..." he adds, dejected.

"Ah," Caesar says. "That will not be necessary. I'm sending some of my men back. There will be enough messengers in your party." This is a curious answer. Marcus stares at him, bemused. Caesar averts his gaze. "If this is about your mother, I must say I had to put an end to our long association before I left Rome."

Oh. Marcus did not want to know this. Or maybe he did. 

It can't have been easy for her. She stayed in Rome to wait for Caesar, after all. A two-decades long affair, ended just like that. Marcus tries to feel something akin to pity towards her, but finds that he feels nothing. Nothing at all.

"How sad," he says, so dryly it sounds like a mockery. 

"It changes nothing of our friendship, yours and mine."

"Of course not. I think nothing of it."

"I'm glad to hear that. I hope you realize how relieved I was to hear you were returning to me. Your friendship will be invaluable from now on, as you may imagine. I can count on your support for any political troubles at home. Can't I? Marcus."

Caesar has never called him Marcus before. While this is enough to send his heart into a frenzy, he is well enough past adolescence to recognize the sinister manipulation for what it is. Marcus cannot refuse him - there may be no weapons inside the tent, but in this very camp there are hundreds of men who'd be happy to skewer him if he displeases Caesar, starting with Posca just outside. And Caesar's tone is obsequious but earnest, charming, irresistible. Only a madman would refuse him. Oh, Marcus will do anything to earn his trust back, humiliating as it may it be. Anything Caesar asks will be his. The men in the camp look at him with contempt, the people of Rome will look at him with contempt as well, but when Caesar smiles at him this way, Marcus finds it difficult to care. 

"Yes," he says, fiercely. "Always."

"Thank you," Caesar says. He rests back in his chair and lets out a sigh of relief. "This will make everything easier. I left Antonius in charge, but he cannot carry this weight alone. Now, I know what you're going to say, my dear: you despise the man. I assure you he isn't the brute you take him to be. Try to get along with him. If not for my sake, then for Rome's."

Marcus lets out a chuckle. "Is this to be my punishment, then? To become friends with Antonius?"

Caesar does not miss a beat. He raises an eyebrow. "Punishment? Why would I punish you? Is there anything you believe I should punish you for?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Marcus answers, his voice raspy. 

Caesar's gaze softens. He stands and walks closer to Marcus until he is standing right in front of him. Marcus isn't thrilled to have to look up at him now, dwarfed by the position, but when they are this close he becomes even more aware of him, of his body. He smells of clean soap, Posca must have bathed him before bed. Marcus swallows, unable to suppress a shiver, and yet he feels feverish, boiling warm.

"You only made an unfortunate decision," Caesar says, too gently. "I already told you: I do not hold what happened against you. There is nothing to forgive, nothing to punish you for." 

He smiles at Marcus and then, shockingly, he touches him: he strokes his hair, oh, just barely, a mere brush of his fingers, enough to ruffle it into disarray. Marcus makes a choking sound. This is too much. He has no control over his body, aching for what he cannot have to the point of madness. He leans forward, resting his forehead on Caesar's abdomen as if starting an embrace, but he does not know what to do with his hands. Caesar's breath hitches. Everything seems to fade from Marcus's awareness but for this sound and for the way the belly against his face rises up and down. Cupid be cursed, is it possible that he isn't alone in his wretched feelings? 

Through his half-closed eyes, he can guess where Caesar's cock rests under his light tunic. Once the filthy, deviant idea crosses his mind, it is impossible to shake off: Marcus wants to lift the garment and take that cock into his mouth, and feel it harden inside him as he fellates it most thoroughly. He's never done anything like this before, the act too degrading, unthinkable for a man of his standing. But he wants to do it so badly a muted whimper escapes his lips: he needs this. Caesar might have forgiven him but he'd deserve this. Marcus would deserve this and worse. Caesar's fingers curl on his hair, his grip tight as he pulls it. His previous gentleness is gone: he pulls hard enough to tear Marcus from him and to force his head backwards - to force him to look up at him. His gaze is wild. A fire. Consumed by it, Marcus licks his lips. 

But Caesar lets go of him and jerks away from him. Marcus bites back a cry of protest.

"Go," Caesar says, his voice forceful. "You are to set off for Rome at once."

Marcus blinks, as stunned as if he'd been thrown on the floor. He stares down. He closes his fists, then relaxes them, not wanting to appear hostile. The abruptness of this dismissal is as mortifying as having had such an unmanly desire in the first place. 

"As you wish," he manages to say. He is painfully hard when he stands. "But know that I'm always yours, whatever morning brings."

He meant for it to be a declaration of his loyalty, but it comes out like a confession of love. The Gods have decided, apparently, that Marcus can do little else but to embarrass himself over and over in Caesar's presence. He leaves the tent in catastrophe, more dramatically than is necessary, and feigns not to notice Posca when he steps outside.

Back in his tent, it takes all of his faltering willpower not to ask for a slave to be brought for him to fuck. He does not trust himself not to spill his shameful secret when he orgasms. Having a slave look at him with scorn or pity would be just as degrading, or perhaps even more, than the cold look in Caesar's gaze when he sent him away. Marcus sits in his cot and handles himself like a boy through gritted teeth. It brings little relief.

* * *

Returning to Rome without Caesar is not as unpleasant as he imagined. The veiled mockery follows him everywhere at first, but life does go on in the City. People start inviting Marcus again - to banquets, to parties, to orgies. He seldom attended the Senate sessions before, but he becomes a regular now. His zeal does not go unnoticed: while some are disappointed he's supporting Caesar, several men begin siding with him in the debates. Instead of grateful, Antonius looks amused at this development. Marcus remembers his promise to Caesar: he is hopeless at feigning friendship, but he may at least dine and drink with the insufferable man and extend invitations back. Political allies who tolerate each other. That's the gist of it. 

News are long to come from Africa but when they do they are invariably joyous: Caesar has defeated Cato, Caesar has defeated Scipio, Caesar is the father of a son after he fucked the Egyptian queen into submission. There's some dissent in Rome, of course, and Cicero seems to have forgotten that he is alive only because of Caesar's mercy. He whispers and whispers in Marcus's ear, but Marcus ignores him superbly. Patience. Caesar will return, and his loyalty will be richly rewarded. Perhaps not just politically: his mouth waters at the thought of it, and though he never lets it slip, he becomes more and more careless in his fantasies. More so when he discovers his mother's bitterness over it all.

She hates Caesar now, and she hates Marcus by extension. She accuses him day and night of having no honor, of dragging the name of the Junii through the mud by grovelling before the tyrant. It's amusing that she now cares about the Junii, when she never did anything to foster this pride in him when he was growing up. She left his education to her brother, a mere Servilii. Marcus revels in her hate and even goes as far as fanning the flames of it: has he not become his mother's rival for Caesar's affection, in a way? 

Damned the Greeks. It always comes back to them, doesn't it. Marcus takes some perverse pleasure in comparing himself to Œdipus Rex, or rather, to Electra.

* * *

Then Caesar returns to Rome, victorious again. Marcus is aware that this is taking on a dangerous edge: dictatorial powers, let alone for life, can never be compatible with the Republic - a Republic that now exists in name only. Still, Marcus speaks for Caesar in the Senate, looking straight into his eyes, and when his speech is done Caesar comes kiss his cheeks for all to see. 

Marcus used to liken him to Mars when he was a child, but as he sees him all in red, golden laurels upon his head and triumphant before the screaming crowd, he can glimpse Jupiter in all His glory. It's intoxicating.

They attend the same banquets and somehow always end up sitting very close together, often reclining in the long chairs nearly side by side as they chat of idle matters. Something is going to happen, Marcus can tell. He bids his time quietly. Patiently. His only concern is Octavius of the Julii: the little pest, not even twenty, is said to hold the affections of Caesar. The boy is handsome, well-mannered. Marcus has heard sordid rumors that they are lovers, but they do act very much like the family they are when he sees them together: uncle and grand-nephew. 

He needn't have worried.

One evening, Calpurnia is holding a small banquet for only twenty illustrious guests, but she is very generous with her wine: Marcus drinks too much, and by the time he realizes it's high time to go home he is too light-headed to walk straight. He did well to bring a slave along to help him stay ahorse. Caesar walks him to the front door, tipsy as well but coherent enough to instruct him about what he's to say in the Senate the next day. Marcus is too far gone to remember all that he's told but he nods anyway - and he wonders, barely holding back a giggle, how it is that he's supposed to get out of bed the next morning without a headache. 

In the vestibulum, Caesar leans closer to kiss him likely on the cheeks, but Marcus tilts his head so that their mouths kiss instead. It isn't the first time this happens. Over the few past months, they've said goodbye like this several times. No one commented on it: it is, after all, not uncommon between close family members, though he and Caesar are nothing of the sort. 

It's just a press of their lips, a light peck - a playful little osculum between friends. But emboldened by the wine, Marcus slips his tongue between their lips and into Caesar's mouth. With no true intent, really. Just to tease. Just to see what would happen. And yet he is momentarily floored when Caesar parts his lips to deepen the kiss. His hands grab at Marcus's toga, pulling him closer.

Oh, it's exactly as Marcus imagined what kissing him would be: forceful and lewd, not at all tender. Urgent, demanding. Caesar tastes of wine. Marcus drinks this kiss, nonsensically wishing to get drunker on him. A sharp pain: Caesar has caught Marcus's lips between his teeth and he pushes him against the wall without breaking the kiss. His back slams against the cold stone. Sweet Venus, is this really going to happen now, _here_ , in Caesar's vestibulum? With the rest of the guests still at the party, with Calpurnia in the house? He remembers, incoherently, the sordid rumors about Caesar's proclivities, how it's said he likes to be penetrated, but the way he's handling him just now belies it all: there can be no other outcome here for Marcus that doesn't end with Caesar's cock up his ass. It's madness how quickly he hardens at the thought - shameless. 

He is vaguely aware that the front door slaves have made themselves scarce, but then Caesar gropes him over the tunic, rubs him, squeezes him, and he can't think straight anymore. He lets out a muffled whimper into the kiss and bucks up against the hand, desperate for more contact, ready to free himself of his toga, of his tunic, of all their annoying folds.

"Domine," Posca says somewhere in the shadows. "You must stop."

"Fuck off, Posca," Marcus mumbles - nearly moans because Caesar has half-lifted his tunic and is stroking his bare cock full length and his head is spinning.

"Trust me, I would love to. But my master insisted very keenly that I should stop him if this ever happened."

Caesar turns his head to glare at Posca. Confused, panting, Marcus can still feel Caesar's erection pressed against his thigh, searing hot and stiff.

"If _what_ happened?" Marcus manages to say, his voice unsteady from how aroused he is.

"If I ever found him in a compromising position with you."

Caesar stays silent, but he drops his hand, leaving Marcus's cock bereft and aching. His tunic slides back down.

"Caesar," he hisses, his brain entirely focused on a single area of his body: he can't bear the thought of being interrupted like this, of being left so wanting. "Caius," he insists. 

Too bold. He realizes it too late.

"Don't call me that," Caesar says sharply. He lets out a deep breath and steps away. "Posca is right. We've both had too much to drink."

"Too much to drink!" Marcus repeats. Begging will cover him in ridicule, but he cannot stop himself from insisting, "Come see me tomorrow after we're finished in the Senate. I'll be as sober as man can be. And I will still want this!"

He would have to be blind not to notice the pained longing that flashes in Caesar's gaze, though he is quick to mask it with his regal arrogance.

"I wish you a pleasant ride home," Caesar says, ignoring the outburst.

He watches, incredulous, as Caesar starts retreating into the atrium (a rather undignified retreat, because he is still stiff and uneasy). Marcus staggers out of frustration as he takes a step forward.

"Is this because of my mother?" he snarls, before Caesar is out of earshot.

At least it gets a reaction out of him: Caesar whirls around, a furious finger pointed at Marcus.

"Don't speak of her now!" he says in a low growl. "Never speak of her to me."

Marcus keeps his mouth shut but he holds Caesar's gaze without flinching. He makes no other move to follow him. But as he turns to get out of the house - a movement in the shadows of the atrium. Octavius. The little pest was spying on them. Marcus glares in the direction of the shadow and steps out into the fresh air. 

Patience, patience, he tells himself through gritted teeth as he climbs on his horse, his drunkenness gone abruptly. There will be another occasion. At least he now knows he is wanted in return, whatever Caesar's bizarre reservations might be. And Posca won't always be with him.

* * *

There is no other occasion.

A week later, on the steps of the Senate, Cicero hands him a pamphlet that bears his name, an abominable denouncing of Caesar's abuse of power. It bears Marcus's name. Marcus's name! He recognizes the incendiary grammar at once. His mother had no qualms in using his name, _his_ name, to spread her poison. They have a horrible row when he rushes home. She despises his love, his loyalty to Caesar, but above all she hates how Caesar loves him back. And quite frankly, Marcus hates her too. When _did_ they become rivals in earnest? The worst of it all is that she hasn't said a single lie in her pamphlet. Dictator for life - how does one justify this? Caesar is a tyrant, the Republic is no more, and Marcus excuses it all because of his insane thirst for the man. 

He runs to Caesar, asks for his pardon, explains the forgery, and knows that he sounds utterly unconvincing. It's the first time they see each other face to face since their drunken groping in the dark, and Caesar looks at him with unfeigned indifference. Unsteady, tripping on his words, Marcus has a taste of what his mother must have felt when her lifelong lover left her - perhaps too late. She told him to fall on his knees and beg, and Marcus just about considers it.

"Well, as long as you and I are clear on where we stand," he concludes, with too much of a hint of panic in his voice. He licks his lips.

"Where _do_ we stand?" Caesar asks, rhetorically, and flashes him an empty smile. "I hope we are the best of friends. Aren't we?"

 _You've had my cock in your hand_ , Marcus thinks, and he feels his face flush.

"We are," he assures him. "We are!"

Caesar leans closer and wraps his arms around Marcus for a brief hug. Gods above, even this reminds him of their latest embrace. Is this too a mockery? A reminder? His cruelty knows no bounds.

"I've never doubted your friendship and fidelity," Caesar tells him, laconic as he steps back. But he lowers his voice and adds, huskily, "Even when we were enemies."

This too is a rebuke. Marcus is left standing there in the middle of the Senate floor, contrite and angry about things long past.

No one believes he didn't write the pamphlet.

The following week the walls of the city are covered with graffiti of his likeness stabbing Caesar in the back. He sends him invitation after invitation, desperate to be alone with him, to explain all - to sink his mother if he must, but Caesar refuses him again and again. Marcus begins to think he'll grow mad before the Kalends arrive. Not a day goes by where a nobleman doesn't stop him in the streets to thank him for starting this 'movement' against Caesar and to pledge his aid. When Marcus denies it, he sees disappointment in the men's eyes. Coward, they whisper, but half-heartedly: they'd rather believe he is biding his time. Marcus never realized Caesar had so many enemies. He also never realized how easy it is to gain the people's affections, even if the cause they imagine him to embrace is at odds with his heart.

Then, when he's nearing the edge of despair, Caesar finally issues him an invitation: to play a quiet game of Latrunculi and have some wine. Just the two of them. Marcus makes his way to Caesar's house with his mouth dry and his heart beating wildly. At last! At last. When he greets him, Caesar's lips linger on the corner of Marcus's mouth. The evening is pleasantly warm for the season: they sit in the terrace where the board has been set up. His impatience aside, Marcus quite enjoys the comfortable silence between them as they play. Wouldn't it be easy, if it were like this evening after evening, for many years to come?

"You know I've always looked on you as a son," Caesar says, breaking the silence at last.

Marcus feels a distinct thrill going up his back. It's an odd way to breach the subject, since Caesar has not exactly been _fatherly_ to him in the recent past, but it is breached at last. If it pleases him to frame it from this angle, Marcus will not deny him this deviant pleasure.

"Oh dear, one of those conversations," he jokes, feigning interest in the board.

But then, said conversation takes a turn so abrupt Marcus is left disoriented as if he were unhorsed to bite the dust. 

Caesar wants to send him to Macedonia, wants him away from Rome, wants him away from him. He no longer trusts him. He throws in his face that Marcus already betrayed him once - when back then, he reassured him it was no betrayal at all. He honeys his words, as usual, but there is frost in his gaze; Marcus was so infatuated he did not notice it when he arrived. 

He did not come here to fight. He came here to love, at long last, and Caesar's mistrust is a slap to the face - no, a stab to the heart. _How can you send me away_ , Marcus thinks, _me? Me!_? and in his anger his eyes sting with idiotic tears.

"Thank you," he mutters, disdainful. "I am honored, but I will not go."

"lt is in my legal power to insist that you do go," Caesar says, cold and dangerous, dropping his voice to a distinct threat.

He used the father-son angle to begin the conversation, and Marcus answers in kind, knowing this is the only way he can hurt him the most.

"As my father!" he exclaims, raising his voice and on the verge of tears. "As my father l looked up to you!"

And it works, it works so well: for the first time that evening, or maybe ever, something akin to hot anger crosses Caesar's gaze.

"Be reasonable!" he shouts. "You're on every wall with a knife at my throat! l would be foolish to ignore it!"

That's it, is it not? He imagines him his mother's son, hysterical, volatile, capable of the worst treachery when angered. Maybe he isn't wrong. Ten minutes earlier Marcus would have given him the world if he asked for it. And now...

"Only tyrants need to worry about tyrant killers," Marcus says, standing up and resisting the urge of flipping the Latrunculi board. "And you are no tyrant! Haven't you told me so many times?"

This too hits its mark: Caesar dismisses him from his presence with a smoldering glare.

So be it, then. 

Marcus is accused of treachery in every corner of Rome. Caesar too considers him a traitor. Therefore, a traitor he shall be.

"I no longer owe any friendship to Caesar," he tells his mother when he returns home, and seals his fate.

* * *

It's butchery. 

Caesar falls on the marbled floor of the Senate, pierced by dozens of blades, writhing in pain - divine no longer. A man, a simple man, bleeding to death, wounded, diminished. There is blood everywhere. Caesar's blood. Marcus is frozen with horror. He's crying. He's been crying since it began, watching in shock as what he conspired to do came to life. It was necessary, he tells himself over and over, but the tears will not stop falling. Cassius finds him and places the knife that he dropped in his trembling hands.

"Do it," he says. "It has to be you."

This is what they agreed: Marcus will kill the tyrant in the name of the Junii, founders of the Republic. The world slows as he nears Caesar. Marcus is deaf to the shouts around him. All that he hears are Caesar's pained last breaths. 

Their gazes meet and oh. Oh. Caesar may be dying, but he still has enough strength to smile at him. Tenderly, lovingly, like Marcus always dreamed to be smiled at.

 _He really did love me_ , he realizes. Too late.

Numb, torn in two, unspeakably pained, he sinks the knife into Caesar's heart and watches, in tears, as his eyes widen in shock when the life goes out of him.

And _oh_ , he realizes, _I really did love him too_.

The brightest sun that Rome has seen extinguishes that day, and light will never shine again.

Marcus regrets it. 

* * *

He will regret it every single day that is left in his miserable life.

* * *

Years later, he willingly meets his own death in similar circumstances. 

Hounded by Octavius's troops (the little pest, now all grown up, has the nerve to call himself Caesar these days, usurping a name he isn't worthy of), alone, defeated in a long pointless war, Marcus gives up. 

He raises one last desperate prayer as he seeks a blade to end his life in this sea of enemies: _Jupiter Maximus, take pity on me. If by Your grace there is a way to atone for what I did to him, I beg You: let me do so in the afterlife._

* * *


	2. Renaissance (1500s Venice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luca = Brutus; Giulio = Caesar. Mind the tags.
> 
> No GIF for this chapter, sorry :( Though I had [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/48/c8/96/48c896fa236c01bb046787cd168fab88.png) and [this](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mcRr3B03QgQ/TUhEBzireqI/AAAAAAAAIHw/4XMEBSMkZSY/s1600/boisguilbert.jpg) very much in mind when writing. Thank you Dundy for the idea for this reincarnation.
> 
> Originally, this chapter was going to include two parts, one in a monastery in Spain in the 1000s and this one. I wrote the monastery bit, but it was getting repetitive and didn’t add much to the fic so I cut it out. If you’d like, pretend there was at least one reincarnation already, where nothing was learned by either of them.
> 
> Thanks for the lovely comments so far, I hope you enjoy this chapter too ♥

* * *

_1500s_

"Where is the red pigment? I told you to buy more yesterday."

Giulio sounds impatient. Luca stops cleaning the paintbrushes and looks up at him in alarm.

"You didn't, Maestro," he argues. "You asked for blue."

"Blue _and_ red. Huff. Never mind now. I'll work on the reds tomorrow."

This means, of course, that Luca will have to go buy the red pigments from the vendecolori tonight, then wake up early tomorrow to grind it and mix with linseed oil so that the paint is ready by the time Giulio starts working. No chance of having a good night's sleep. He doesn't remember what sleeping to his heart's content feels like. Giulio is a demanding master, but Luca would not want to be doing anything else: the old priest from his village was kind enough to find him this apprenticeship when he was only ten, on account of his talent for drawing. Giulio looked at him, at the skinny boy that he was then, and ordered him to sketch something. Luca drew _him_ as fast as he could, the charcoal staining his fingers. He wanted to stay. One look at Giulio and he knew, he simply knew he had to stay with this man who looked like a King despite his scrawny beard and his fingers full of paint. He drew a crown of laurels on him - to this day he does not know why. But when Luca finished the drawing, he was hired at once. Giulio insists on keeping it displayed in their workshop even now, despite it being little more than a childish scrawl.

He's lucky, he supposes. In the street where they live, the butcher's apprentice is beaten day in and day out by his master, and the carpenter is said to sodomize his own apprentice. Giulio has never struck Luca without good reason, or touched him. He's fed him and dressed him and taught him anything a young painter ought to know before starting his own atelier. Now that he is twenty, Luca ought to start thinking about his masterpiece and become a journeyman, but he has been delaying it month after month: he is in no particular hurry to leave Giulio's tutelage.

"Yes, Maestro," he says, belatedly, and goes back to scrubbing the paintbrushes.

"Leave that for later," Giulio says as he steps closer. "Start getting ready. I need to work on that commission while there's still daylight. We have at least a half-hour."

Ah. This is the part that would be difficult to explain, if he were to compare his apprenticeship to that of other young men. Giulio likes using him for a model when he paints: his John the Baptists, Davids, Josephs all take after Luca's face and body. When Luca was younger, the little Christs and cherubs wore his face, too. Some would argue it's indecent to bare himself before another man, but the practice is so widespread among artists no one questions it: the only way to depict the infinite intricacies of the human muscles is to study them in the flesh. Giulio has gone as far as hiring men from the less savory brothels to teach him the subtleties of light as it reflects on their skin. Luca is both apprentice and model for the price of one, though he supposes he was a costly investment - after all, Giulio had no way of knowing that he'd grow to be tall, or lean, or that the pox would not mark him. Giulio calls him handsome, too, but Luca finds that hard to believe whenever he sees himself in a mirror. 

His hands tremble a little as he dries them on his apron, and they tremble even more as he starts undressing. At first, he only was ashamed about being naked in front of him so openly. But for the past few months, it's the idea of being watched so closely, of having every little inch of his body under his master's attentive gaze that flusters him so. If Giulio paints him incessantly, Luca does the same: in his sketches, his Moses, Noahs, Abrahams all look like Giulio. But he's never seen him naked. 

Luca climbs on the wooden step and takes the pose required of him, trying very hard not to think of Giulio naked. It would be mortifying to get an erection while he's entirely nude like this.

"Turn your head a little to the left. Good. What a funny look on your face right now, what are you possibly thinking of? Try to look worried. Yes, much better."

"Who am I supposed to be?" Luca asks, a little timidly. Giulio has been most secretive about this commission and has ignored all of his attempts to get him to talk about it. But he now meets his gaze, pausing his strokes on the canvas.

"I suppose I might as well tell you now that it's almost over. I've been commissioned a 'Jacob in the desert' by the Holy See."

"The Holy See!"

"Shh. Keep it down. This can't leave these four walls, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Maestro. Of course."

"Now stop smiling like that and be quiet. I'll tell you all about it while I paint." Giulio stays silent for a moment as he finishes up a few touches, then speaks again, "You probably remember I received a gentleman last week - I sent you away that afternoon. He was an emissary from Cardinal Orsini. They're finally curious about what Venetian artists have to offer."

"We have plenty to offer," Luca says, indignant.

"Precisely. Let those Florentines paint their unpalatable sfumato. We in Venice know how to paint the light. And they came here, to _my_ workshop! They're well-informed, evidently. They know Constanzo is a fraud who can barely hold his paintbrush straight - so they came to see _me_."

Luca can't help smiling as he recognizes Giulio's monstrous pride, flattered at being considered over his greatest rival in town. But a stern tut-tut reminds him he's supposed to look 'worried' - he composes his face obediently.

"I'm telling you, my boy, the moment this painting reaches Rome a new era will begin for us. If the Holy See is pleased (and they _will_ be), they will commission more paintings. Once word gets out about my work, more offers will come: from Dukes and Princes and perhaps even from Kings. Fame, at long last! Rome first, then all of Europe will be mine."

Dukes and Princes and Kings! All of Europe! Luca stares at Giulio, mesmerized by this future he's describing. They would have to travel from one court to the other, like the Florentine Masters - but Giulio will be a Venetian Master. They will stay together, won't they? Luca bites his lips, uneasy at the thought that Giulio might forsake his apprentice once Fame whisks him to grander venues. He doesn't want to leave him. He doesn't want to be _left_.

"Will you take me with you?" he asks.

"Hold that frown, it's marvelous. Of course I'll take you with me. What would I do without you? Clean the paintbrushes myself?"

"You could have any other apprentice."

"Not like you. You're like a son to me. Don't you know by now?"

Luca did not know. He dared to hope, but he did not believe it. He grins at Giulio, who only grumbles because he's lost whatever gloomy expression he had before.

"Can this otherwise tender moment wait a few hours?" he says, impatient. "I need to finish this as soon as possible, sundown will happen any moment now."

"Forgive me, Maestro," Luca says, and cannot stop smiling. "But I did not know."

Giulio sighs and sets his paintbrush down on the edge of the easel. He walks over to him - Luca expects him to correct his pose, but Giulio stops in front of him and gestures down.

"Come here," he says. 

A little surprised, Luca steps down, thinking too late that he should maybe cover himself. Giulio puts his paint-stained hands on Luca's shoulders, then leans in and places two hearty kisses on his cheeks. Luca's face grows warm at the thought that he is stark naked, and yet Giulio kisses him like this. Not very paternal, is it? Or maybe it really is, and Luca is spoiling this moment - he never knew his father. His member stirs a little bit, very inappropriately. He prays for Giulio not to notice, but he does not: he is cleaning the paint he's left on his shoulders with the drying cloth, very gently. Then he returns to his painting. A little stunned, Luca climbs back up on the step.

He doesn't need to be told to look worried: he's worried enough on his own to appear nonchalant and not at all flustered like he feels. But he has no reason to. He's always relinquished a part of himself, of his body, to Giulio - to teach, to observe, or to paint. So if it pleases him to kiss Luca, as a son or otherwise, it should feel like a natural extension of their association. Should it not? If Giulio were a lustful man - and he isn't, Luca has never known him to seek women's company, or men's; if he were a lustful man and approached him with propositions, Luca does not think he'd refuse him. He would not refuse at all.

Giulio's loud sigh brings him back down to Earth. He gestures towards Luca's crotch irritatedly.

"How am I supposed to paint you like that?"

Luca realizes in horror that his stray thoughts have had a very noticeable effect on his body. He covers himself with his hands, distressed, but this has the opposite effect on his swelling member: he hardens even more.

"I'm sorry!" he stammers. "I don't know why this happened." 

Giulio turns around to look out the tall windows of the workshop and shakes his head. "The light's almost gone for today, or I'd send you to your room to handle it away quickly." He turns to face him again with an exasperated scowl, and Luca feels thoroughly miserable. "What's the matter with you, Luca? Aren't you a little old for this?"

"I don't know," Luca says, and sits down on the step, defeated, and still hard.

"Have you been to the brothels yet?" Giulio asks and oh, this is too humiliating. Luca shakes his head no. "Why not?"

"I was hoping you'd take me one day," he says, earnest, and then it's too late to go back on his words, so he adds, in a single breath, "You've taught me everything else I know, I imagined you'd teach me this, too."

Giulio bursts out laughing, but there's no mockery in it, only genuine amusement.

"I'll tell you what, Luchetto. After this painting is done, I'll take you there myself. We can't have you going to Rome as a blushing virgin, you're too handsome for that."

Now close again, Giulio pats his cheek: it will leave a stain there, bright blue. Luca resists the urge to press more against the hand, only because he does not want to have to scrub his whole face later. But he does look up at him, straight into his eyes. Giulio, who was still smiling, grows serious abruptly. He lifts a hand, as if to stroke Luca's hair, but something makes him hesitate. He drops his hand. Luca stares and stares at him, fascinated by the darkness and the light that he can glimpse in his gaze. He'd love to sketch him just now, to be allowed to watch him for hours like Giulio watches him when he paints, to be able to memorize every little detail of his face when he looks at him like this.

But Giulio turns away from him and walks over to his desk. He opens the drawer where he keeps the money, and grabs a purse full of coins. 

"Get dressed," he says. "We will finish this tomorrow, hm? Run and buy the pigments." He throws the purse at him: Luca manages to catch it in mid-air. "Don't just buy any red. Scarlatto, vermiglio, arrossato. You'll remember that?"

"Of course, Maestro."

"Buy yourself something nice, if you'd like."

Disappointed without fully understanding why, Luca grabs his clothes and makes his way to his room to get dressed to go out. While still stiff, it does not feel as urgent before. He gives himself a squeeze to lessen the pressure, wishing he had more time to do this, to lie in bed and rut against the covers, but the pigment sellers will not stay open long after sundown. He sighs, resigning himself to postpone it for later, and wraps a thick cape around his shoulders.

Once outside, heart still drumming in his chest, Luca decides against taking the boat to get to the shop. Navigating on the canal is a straighter route but a slow one against the tide on the way there, whereas it will be quicker on foot despite the several detours needed to cross the bridges and find his way on dry land. It's chilly out, and most people he walks by are hurrying to their homes before dark: despite the Doge's best efforts, the city runs amok with miscreants in the late hours. The sun is just disappearing behind the taller houses, leaving the city bathed in purple and blue.

He takes great care to hide the purse as he walks not to make it jingle, and he looks over his shoulder frequently, but his attacker seemingly comes out of nowhere. The man, stepping out of the shadows of the narrow alley, trips Luca with malevolent force. A cold knife presses on his neck.

"Speak, boy," a horrible, grating voice commands as an iron grip keeps him down. "Is it true that the Giulio pig has dealings with the Pope?"

Luca doesn't answer anything, at first still disoriented from the hit he took when he was tripped, and then too confused to come up with an answer. They don't want to rob him? This is about _Giulio_? Giulio and Rome? Oh, this must be the work of Constanzo - a hired henchman of his. The man is hooded to hide his face, but he can guess a crooked nose, and a mouth missing several teeth. Luca is unarmed, but even if he brought a dagger with him, he does not think he'd have the courage to use it. He kicks halfheartedly, legs tangled in his cape.

"Speak!" the man shouts, and the knife digs deeper into his skin.

"I don't know!" he squeaks. "He doesn't talk to me about his patrons. He beats me when I ask too many questions. I don't know anything. I swear. Please."

Luca has never had to lie. He has no idea whether he sounds convincing. He sounds terrified, that's what. Even so, he thinks fiercely, he'd rather die for Giulio than to betray him. How can he? _I'll never betray him, never never never again_ , he tells himself, though he isn't sure why he thinks _again_. 

"You little lying shit," growls his attacker. "Didn't he receive an emissary from Rome last week?"

"He did receive someone foreign, but he sent me away from the workshop. I don't know who he was, or what he wanted. Please!"

"That man was from the Vatican. But thank you. That's all I wanted to know." The knife stops pressing on Luca's neck and the sound of a coin clinks on the cobbled street. "Here. For your troubles."

The man disappears as quickly as he came, with a soft splash as he slips into a boat gliding down the canal. Luca jumps to his feet and kicks the silver coin, shaking with belated rage. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have played dumb. What is Constanzo doing, threatening citizens like this? Is he so green with envy that he cannot bear the thought of Giulio working for the Holy See? Zealous enough to use a henchman, to use violence? Quickly, he must get back to the workshop and tell Giulio. Perhaps they can complain to the Doge himself, or to the Vatican.

But first, the pigments. He cannot go back to the workshop without them, attacker or not: he's already frustrated an evening of work for Giulio, he wouldn't dream of spoiling a morning as well. He is closer to the store now than to home, and he runs to get there faster. Luca pushes the door open, too hard, and closes it behind himself immediately. He rests his back against it, still trying to catch his breath.

"What happened?" Enrico asks, wide-eyed. He's a good friend, just about his age. He mans his father's shop in his absence.

"Someone..." Luca hesitates. He trusts Enrico, but he cannot spill Giulio's secrets. "Someone tried to rob me," he ends up saying. He's piling lie after lie today.

"Did he follow you?"

"No. He ran. Hurry, sell me some red pigments."

Enrico leads him down to the red shelf with a few curses for the thieves in the city. Luca takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He does love this shop and its tall shelves stretching up to the ceiling, full of multicolored jars aligned neatly one next to the other following a haphazard palette of degradé. Luca could spend hours here. He's often fantasized what it would be like to paint this very shop with the bright, luminous colors Giulio has taught him to create, studying the patterns daylight creates as it slips through the window. Even at night, by the light of the candle, the room takes on an eerie appearance, colorful like the Carnival lanterns that adorn the city in February. 

Scarlatto, vermiglio, arrossato. Somewhat calmer now, Luca takes the pigments he needs, the cold of the small jars soothing against his sweaty palms. Enrico is now babbling to him about the baker's daughter, with whom he's been in love for months. She baked some sweets for him, apparently. 

"Do you want to try one?" Enrico offers.

"I can't," Luca says. "I must go back to Maestro Giulio."

He pays without counting the coins. Any other time, Luca would be interested in the gossip and in the sweets. But a terrible dread has entered his heart, a certainty that something terrible is going to happen, something he should have stopped. It's dark out when he steps back outside, and the streets are deserted. Luca should have brought a lantern with him, but he knows the city well enough to find his way on the few coiling streets that aren't underwater. He hates himself for not having taken the boat: if he had, none of this would have happened. He runs runs runs on the empty streets, across the deserted bridges, not stopping once to catch his breath.

But he is too late.

The door of the workshop is ajar when he steps inside.

There's a red puddle on the floor that isn't paint. The canvas of Jacob in the desert has been slashed in two, likely by a knife. And on the floor, Giulio lies unmoving. Dead. Because of him.

Luca screams.

* * *


	3. The Terror (1840s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr of the other chapters for those joining just now from The Terror  
> \- In Rome, Caesar (Sir John) was the lover of Brutus (Fitzjames)’s mom. Brutus had the hots for him but Caesar kept him at arm’s length  
> \- They made out one time when they were drunk, Caesar pressed him against a wall and started touching him but they were interrupted  
> \- Brutus betrayed him several times in their lifetime, and he ultimately killed him because of political reasons and because their personal relationship had deteriorated  
> \- Before dying, Brutus begged Jupiter to give him a second chance with Caesar and his wish was granted. They’ve had at least one reincarnation up to now, also with weird paternal undertones, but it also ended in death.
> 
> I think this chapter can be read as a standalone but some stuff will make more sense if you check out the earlier chapters for more context :) Mind the tags for the other chapters!!
> 
> I made this GIF because I find it really lovely that James is quietly reading a book in Sir John’s cabin - the whole chapter is based on that. Dundy = James’s nickname for Le Vesconte in the show. I posted the first 3 chapters very quickly but must take a little longer to edit the last 2. Your comments are all very helpful!

* * *

_1840s_

The dreams begin the night James meets Sir John Franklin.

He doesn't realise it then, of course. He only comes to that conclusion much later, in the desolate wasteland of the Arctic with the howling wind his only comfort. It's easy to pinpoint, because James's dreams have always been vivid and rich, veritable adventures full of twists and intrigue - so much that back in the Far-East, he began telling Dundy his dreams every morning to amuse him. (He did embellish them a little, of course (of course!), but he had no need to fabricate the plots, not when his sleeping self came up with such wondrous scenarios on his own.) The night he met Sir John, he dreamt of nothing. Or rather, he did dream, but nothing was happening in it: he could hear sounds, but his vision remained uncertain, blurred, white like in the fiercest of blizzards. 

When he embarks for the expedition, the same dream returns again, at first once a fortnight, then once a week, then once every few days. Alarmingly, as the blurring becomes less and less pronounced, he can glimpse Sir John in what appears to be a costume.

"Maybe you're in love with the man," Dundy teases, and James boxes his ears to shut him up.

Soon after they venture into the truly inhospitable part of their journey in the Arctic, Mister Hoar knocks on his door at two bells to tell him the Captain requests his presence. James glances at himself in the mirror, fixes his hair, buttons up his vest and steps into the great cabin.

"You called for me, sir?"

Sir John looks up at him from his book. He isn't fully dressed, having removed his Captain waistcoat to wear only the white vest underneath, evidently easing off before bed. A steaming cup of tea rests on the table, and the ship's cat sleeps on his lap. James smiles, surprised at the peacefulness of the scene: Sir John bears himself like a gentleman in his manor, in equal parts regal and comfortable.

"Ah. Yes, James. We're to spend a substantial amount of time around each other in this long journey. I think it's in our best interests to become good friends. Don't you agree?"

"Of course, sir. I would love nothing more."

James has a quirky talent for seeing into men's hearts, developed by necessity as an unwanted child overflowing with ambition - invaluable to climb up the social ladder otherwise inaccessible to him. If he gives men what they desire, they are usually keen to offer whatever James needs in return. So he's learned to go to great lengths to please men around him: if it entails lying, glossing over minute details, or even humiliating himself a little, he does it without feeling anything in particular about it. A simple transaction. James could have been a great trader, if he hadn't chosen the Royal Navy. But it's useful enough here too: it's what makes him a great Commander, knowing what his men want or need, be it a comforting word or a stern reprimand.

Of course, this works both for simpler-minded men and for those more sophisticated. James was able to understand that Le Vesconte shared his thirst for wild adventures from a simple glance. Barrow was a bumbling fool with too much of an appetite for men - a hair's breadth away from catastrophe, so James befriended him awaiting the fallout. Crozier... well, Lord knows what Crozier wants: women he can't have to donquixotesquely fight his demons for him, or in their absence to be left alone and stew in his sour temperament - God, how insufferable he is. When Sir John glances at him this way and offers him a seat next to him, James perceives a deep need for an audience, for someone's unquestioning devotion and admiration. That's easy enough to provide. James sits with him, and smiles.

Sir John asks, "Are you a good reader?" 

"Passably good, I suppose. But I've not read out loud for an audience in quite some time."

Not since his boyhood, really. His 'aunt' liked to be read to, and she preferred James to William, her own son.

"Well, you have a pleasant enough voice. Shall we try tonight?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"We may vary our entertainment from night to night, of course. I find that I enjoy your conversation, so that may just be enough most days. Do you play chess? Cards?"

"I do, sir." James smirks, hazarding some playfulness. "But I must warn you I happen to be deadly at both. We may end up quarreling, and our burgeoning friendship would be cut short."

Sir John lets out a short laugh. "Is that so?" he says. "Beware of being too cocky, my dear James. Your fall from Grace will be far more spectacular."

"Can't fall from Grace if you've already fallen, sir," James quips, and folds his hands on his lap. "What shall we read tonight?"

"Why don't we start with the Scriptures? I can think of no better subject than that."

The _Bible_? James has to mind himself not to make a grimace. How very dull. He can think of dozens of works he'd rather read, let alone out loud, but it wouldn't do to contradict Sir John. He stands up to fetch the Bible from the bookshelf, holding it with the appropriate reverence as he sits back down. 

"Any passages in particular?" he asks.

"I'm quite fond of opening the Bible in a seemingly random place and going from there. It may be a little unorthodox, but I've often found that it applies to whatever particular problems ails my mind, and soothes it."

It is unorthodox. Esoteric, even. But James accepts it. Who knows, he might end up reading the Song of Songs with this method.

"I hope that in time you will trust me enough to share your burdens with me," he says, warmly, and opens the Bible on a whim. "Judges 17," he intones. " _And there was a man of mount Ephraim, whose name was Micah_."

The chapter is about idolatry, not at all exciting, but James's voice wavers a little when he reaches a particular verse: _'And Micah said unto him, Dwell with me, and be unto me a father and a priest, and I will give thee ten shekels of silver by the year, and a suit of apparel, and thy victuals. And the Levite was content to dwell with the man; and the young man was unto him as one of his sons._ ' 

It's a little too uncanny to be a coincidence. He glances up at Sir John. The Captain is staring back at him knowingly, longingly, and he smiles.

A son? Sir John wants a son in him? For the first time in a very long time, James thinks he's found a man to whom he cannot give what he desires. He is no one's son. He does not want to be anyone's son. But he clenches his jaw, and keeps reading to him.

* * *

  
  


How is a son supposed to act? 

James follows Sir John about the ship, listens to him, offers a few quips here and there, and takes his rare scoldings with a suitably bowed-down head. They dine together, they watch the ice together, and they spend all their evenings together, be it alone or with the rest of the officers. It's pleasant enough, but James still isn't keen to read the Bible out loud. After some time, excruciatingly long into this regime, he hazards a request to try something else.

"What would you rather read?" Sir John asks, an eyebrow raised as he puffs on his pipe.

James is so fed up with the Scriptures he'd willingly read one of those insufferable novels women rave about back home with dashing gentlemen and quivering heroines. But he knows enough of Sir John by now to know he'd most thoroughly disapprove of such readings - and more so of the filthy literature James has acquired in his travels, and that he keeps under key at the bottom of his trunk. He mentally reviews the public, more palatable bookshelf of his cabin. 

"How about Caesar's Commentaries?" he suggests. "I happen to own a good translation."

"I own the Commentaries myself, but in Latin," Sir John says, sounding amused. "What translation do you have, Duncan's?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I fetch it from my cabin?"

"Some find Duncan's translation very dull."

"Caesar is never dull," James answers, more fiercely than he intended. 

"Agreed." Sir John looks pleased. "How is your Latin these days, James?"

"Wholly unsuitable to read out loud to you, I'm afraid."

"Let us find out, then. Get it from the second shelf."

"You will regret this." James stands up, shaking his head and resisting the urge to glare at him. "All my teachers despaired of correcting my pronunciation."

"Then we shall work on it together. We have all the time in the world."

James sighs as he opens the book, staying by the bookshelf. " _Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae, nostra Galli appellantur_ ," he reads, laboriously, and glances at Sir John, who only raises his eyebrow at him again.

"Well? Go on."

Encouraged, James walks back to the table as he continues reading, " _Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus inter se differunt. Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna flumen, a Belgis Matrona et Sequana dividit..._ "

Before he knows it, his tongue seems to untie, and he's read about a dozen pages until the parlay with the Helvetians, where a natural pause occurs in the text. When he glances up, Sir John is staring at him so intently that James pales a little. One simple look, and a familiar tightness rouses in him - familiar, but most unwelcome. Sir John has never looked at him this way. James has never seen him looking this way, period: with such passion in his gaze. Unsettled, he shuts the book, which seems to startle Sir John out of his trance. He clears his throat and seemingly returns to his more civilised self. James stares down. He _saw_. He knows what he saw in Sir John's gaze and he does not know what to make of it. 

"I do not see what you were worried about," Sir John says, his tone even as ever. "Your diction is a little unusual, but you are quite talented at it."

"Thank you," James says, still not meeting his gaze.

"You speak Portuguese, do you not?"

This does make James look up, wary at once. He's had that question asked numerous times in his career, so often that it no longer sends him into a quiet panic of his shameful secret being discovered. But he is agitated enough already that it makes his heart jump.

"Yes," he admits, minding not to sound too wry.

"That must help, undoubtedly. Are they very alike? It was stunning, I must say. Latin may be a dead language, but you made it sound... alive." 

This is the kind of empty platitude that would make James roll his eyes inwardly before calling it a night. But hearing this from Sir John's lips seems to confer an entirely new significance to it: James treasures the compliment with shocking zeal. Perhaps they ought to go back to the Bible after all. He isn't sure he could bear this kind of excitement every evening without getting inappropriately worked up.

"It's always felt alive to me," he ends up saying, his voice nonchalant. "The Ancient World, that is. For a good month or two, I even considered going to Cambridge, so much I loved Latin. I am glad I grew out of that idea."

"So am I, for that matter!" 

Sir John lets out a short laugh. He reaches for his pipe that lies forgotten on the table, but instead of relighting it he only turns it between his fingers. He meets James's gaze again. 

"Well, since we have veered into this topic, I joined the Navy because I dreamt of seeing foreign lands, of conquering them for our Nation." He leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "No one told me most lands were conquered already, that naval warfare is incredibly tedious, or that I would see the inside of a ship more often than I'd see foreign lands."

James smiles, awash with a rather sudden fondness for Sir John and the quiet evenings they spend together like this. Apparently, somewhere along this voyage his enjoyment stopped being feigned to gain some profit from it, and became wholly genuine.

"But it isn't so bad inside our ship, is it now, sir?" he says.

"No, my boy. Indeed it isn't."

His hand, large and warm, covers his own. His calloused thumb strokes James's knuckles, like he would do to a very young child. Or to a lover. James scolds himself for the inappropriate pang that pulses more insistingly in his groin.

Later, as he lies down in his berth after undressing, James slips a hand into his drawers and gives himself a stroke. He could keep going. Make it quick and sleep better after it. But no. Just because Sir John looked at him strangely? No. He will not. It would be very _odd_ , even for him - and Lord knows he's had his share of questionable sexual adventures. This feels a step too far, however, completely unpalatable. (But he does want it, he admits to himself, because he tries to be honest with at least himself since he cannot be with others.) He pulls his hand out, sighs loudly, and tries his best to fall asleep. 

When he does, it's of him he dreams. 

His drawers are soiled the next morning - the epitome of ridiculousness.

* * *

  
  


"So what if he sees you as a son? At least he loves you, everyone can see that. Why are you all bothered about this?"

Le Vesconte is sitting on the floor of James's cabin, his back against the berth, and he has to twist his head upwards to talk to him. He is too tall for this. They are speaking in hushed tones out of necessity, but they're no strangers to that. James is sitting on the chair, one leg crossed over his knee. He shakes his head.

"You know why," he tells him, sullen. Dundy is the only man on the ship who knows the truth about his past. One of the few in the world, in fact. "I don't know how to be a son. I never was one."

"Must you be so literal? Be a nephew. What do you imagine is different about it?"

"I told you: I do not know."

"You're overthinking this." Dundy stands up and walks closer to James. His boots are too noisy on the wooden floor of the cabin. "Do you still dream of him?"

"Yes. It's becoming clearer now. He is wearing a Roman costume. Some sort of toga."

Dundy laughs, and James regrets having told him. At least he didn't tell him that he is in the dream as well, equally dressed like a Roman and playing a game of checkers with Sir John. Annoyed, he jerks his head away to dodge the mocking caress on his cheek.

"I tell you, the only time I've seen you obfuscated like this was when you were desperately pursuing that governor's cousin in Penang, only to be refused. What was his name, again?"

"Brickwell. And sod off, I did get him to bed in the end. Him and his wife, and his brother."

"That's right! The Great Triple. I remember that." Le Vesconte laughs harder, and James wants to punch him. "Well, don't despair yet. I have faith in you. Maybe you can get Sir John to bed as well."

James makes a face and a very vocal sound of disapproval. "I don't want the man, for God's sake. It isn't like that at all. This may come as a shock to you, but not everything is about fucking."

"Oh hoh. 'Not everything is about fucking'? That _is_ shocking. Are you ill? Shall I fetch Doctor Stanley?" Smirking, Dundy grabs him by the chin to force him to look at him. James bats the hand away. "Hmm. You're playing the son part well enough, then. But imagine if Sir John knew the extent of your filthy adventures in the Far-East. He might just scold you and put you over his knee for a good walloping."

James, horrifyingly, feels his face grow red without warning. Dundy starts laughing so hard he's nearly in hysterics.

"Be quiet right this instant or I'll wallop you myself!"

"Ha! I'd like to see you try."

James leaps at him to make him shut up and to rough him up a little. But he miscalculates his impulse, or underestimates Le Vesconte's hilarity: he ends up knocking him down to the floor of his cabin with great fracas. They stare at each other, equally shocked, but when Dundy starts trying to get up James clings to him and manages to put him in a playful headlock, forgetting himself. Now half-standing, they crash against the wall of the cabin, then fall to the floor once more. Dundy is laughing again, breathless now, and he manages to put his hand flat to James's face to push him away. James starts laughing too, and will not let go.

But the door of the cabin slides open abruptly: Sir John steps in, not looking amused in the least.

James lets go of Dundy at once, and laughter dies on both their lips.

"I beg your pardon, sir," James says, mortified, as he draws himself up to his knees, arms extended to placate him. "We were just larking about."

"This conduct is intolerable for two of my officers," Sir John says. His bewildered frown is a terrifying sight. "What if the men see your indiscipline?"

Now back on his feet, James offers his hand to Le Vesconte to help him up. A quick look behind Sir John informs him that thankfully the commotion attracted no other spectators, though it may well have been heard. What utter stupidity.

"It shan't happen again, sir," he promises. 

"I should hope so," Sir John says, still looking profoundly offended. "A word alone with you, Fitzjames."

James glances at Dundy before following Sir John to the great cabin. This is a mistake: while Le Vesconte looks suitably contrite, his gaze is still full of laughter, and redoubles in mirth at the sight of James marching to whatever scolding Sir John will hand out to him - he'll never let James hear the end of this. He silences Dundy with a glare, and shuts the door of the great cabin behind himself.

Sir John sits at his desk and crosses his hands on the table. He does not invite James to sit, unlike he does every night, leaving him to stand before him like any other shipman. It gives the impression of a court martial. James admits to himself that he feels a little nervous, but whatever nature did not supply him in caution, it provided in cockiness aplenty, so he keeps his head high and crosses his arms behind his back with far more calm than he actually feels.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Lieutenant Le Vesconte?" Sir John asks.

The question is so unexpected James does not know how to answer for a brief moment. 'We had a pet cheetah once' doesn't quite cut it. Neither does 'there are no brothels between Bombay and Canton that we did not visit together'. 

"We are old mates," he says. "Old friends. We've been acquainted for just over six years now." He frowns as it occurs to him Sir John might be hinting at any impropriety between them. He'll fight to the last inch of his life to deny this, and when he speaks again, his voice has more heat to it, "He's bled for me several times, and I for him. He is like a brother to me. I would walk across the ice back to civilisation for him, on foot, by myself, and I know he'd do the same for me."

The last bit was melodramatic, but James does not regret it. He holds Sir John's gaze, defiant, suitably indignant. Good Lord, it's fortunate he only caught them mock-fighting and not engaging in their less savoury pastimes. Sir John lights his pipe and gives a few puffs as he studies James thoughtfully.

"Sometimes," he says, dead serious, "sailors find it mortifyingly taxing to spend long months at sea without the regretfully sinful but otherwise earthly distractions a brothel may provide, and they turn to unnatural replacements out of necessity."

James looks at him in muted horror. Are they truly having this conversation? He did not think it was possible to pile on so many euphemisms in a single sentence, but Sir John has shown him otherwise.

"Sir," he says, his voice a paragon of civilised virtue, "I know what replacements you allude to, and you may rest assured that I consider them an abomination and that I would be most energetic to condemn any hints of said behaviour in our expedition."

Dundy's head buried between his thighs, an abomination! James would laugh out loud at himself if the situation were a little less dire. Sir John, however, looks suitably placated - rather relieved, in fact.

"Good! Good. I am glad to hear your position in this delicate matter. Forgive me for forcing such an indecorous subject upon yourself, but the physicality of what I witnessed between you two gave me pause. I would be most chagrined to have to punish you for such an offence."

James feels an improper little thrill at this. Punish him _how_? Curse Dundy to hell and back for insinuating ideas into his head, because in a flash he does imagine himself across Sir John's lap, bared for a smacking. He somehow manages to sound contrite, and not at all aroused when he speaks.

"No need for that whatsoever, sir. I apologise you had to witness this juvenile playfulness. I assure you our disagreements can become physical but are otherwise innocent. As it happens among brothers, indeed."

This is a lie: not once had he and William come to blows when they were boys, playful or not - and they were brought up together, despite being no true relations. But even as a child James was made perfectly conscious of his place in the pecking order, well enough to never dream of striking his false cousin.

"I understand. But do mind your conduct before the men. I do not need to remind you are third in command in my expedition and cannot be seen frolicking like a ship's boy, do I?"

"No, sir. You needn't remind me."

"Well, we will consider the matter closed, then."

Sir John visibly eases down and lies back on his chair as he smokes his pipe. James, still not invited to sit, cannot do the same. Blessedly, Mister Bridgens knocks on the door and enters at once when the Captain bids him to: the carpenter wishes to speak to him about the stability of the ship.

"Of course," Sir John says. "Coming along, James?"

James nods and follows him, and studiously avoids meeting Le Vesconte's gaze as they walk past him in the hallway.

* * *

  
  


Whatever God is still looking over them in this frozen wasteland has a penchant for making a mockery of James. The next time they go back to the Bible, James lands on the Song of Songs. The only Book that ever held his interest as a boy with a filthy imagination. He isn't sure he can read this to Sir John and keep a straight face.

"The Song of Solomon," he warns, and when Sir John raises no particular objection, he begins reading.

A woman is the speaker of this passage, so James has to bear the ridicule of saying things such as ' _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth_ ' or ' _By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth_ ' with an indifferent voice. But one verse in particular gives him pause. It reads, ' _I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's house, and into the chamber of her that conceived me._ ' He falters here a little. Why does this sound so wrong? And so unbecomingly alluring at the same time? The text did not mean it that way, evidently, but it makes James think of someone fucking their mother's lover behind her back. He's definitely growing more complacent in his depraved thoughts - with a Bible in his hands _and_ in Sir John's presence! He clears his throat and continues reading, but the verse keeps turning and turning in his head, and he finds with some alarm that he is hardening a little under the table - like a young boy, getting inappropriately aroused merely from reading a salacious text. He had too much wine at dinner, that's what it is.

When he is done reading, he dares to look up at Sir John, who mercifully seems to suspect nothing of his predicament. He is staring at him most keenly, however, and James braces himself for dangerous waters out of sheer instinct.

"How have you not married, dear James? You are a handsome lad, it cannot be for lack of opportunities."

Indeed it hasn't been for lack of opportunities: he has never courted any lady at all, studiously keeping himself away from this. How could he ever submit himself to the scrutiny of a zealous father? Should the secret of his birth ever come out, what guardian would consider a bastard of uncertain relations for his protegée? The pinnacle of James's ambition regarding women, as he's told Le Vesconte in countless occasions, is to seduce an older, rich widow with no relatives who might object to him, and to marry her for the money. 

"Alas, I seem to be afflicted from insurmountable timidity in the presence of marriageable women," he says, affecting some embarrassment as he lies without effort and crosses his legs under the table. _Go away, for fuck's sake_ , he tells his stubborn hint of an erection. 

"Aren't we all?" Sir John chuckles. "But do not worry. I may be able to help you when we return to London." 

What a horrifying perspective.

"That would be most kind of you, sir." James takes a deep breath, knowing he is about to be too bold, but he needs to steer the conversation away from himself. "But is it wise for a seaman to marry? I ask this to you in earnest, as I had the pleasure of being acquainted with your wife. Do you not miss her? Even now, as we speak?"

Sir John startles at this. Has James miscalculated how far he can push their friendship? He is preparing an immediate apology, but the Captain addresses his question in the end.

"I do miss her, of course."

"It just seems to me," James goes on, bolder and bolder, "that it would be a ghastly torment to find someone to love, only to be parted for years."

"It is a torment," Sir John admits. "But we men are no strangers to torment, imperfect as we are. It tempers our spirits. The sweetest pleasures often come after a long denial, my dear James."

"Is that so?" James says, his mouth dry. He is growing obnoxiously stiff by now. The need to touch himself has become very distracting.

"Yes," he answers, emphatic. "You're a young man acquainted with the ways of the world. Don't tell me you've never experienced the allure of what you cannot have."

Oh, but James has. Two or three examples come to mind, but they are far too depraved to mention in polite company. Not to mention his current predicament. He looks down at the table, too strung up to mask his agitation successfully. Sir John seems to take his silence for a negative.

"Well, never you mind, it will come in due time. I am sure you will make a brilliant match in no time when we return." He flashes him an eager glance that alarms James in its suddenness. "I say, my niece is still unmarried. She's of an age with you. Perhaps a bit too old? But I am certain you would get along splendidly."

Sir John's niece? Crozier's failed conquest? James wants to laugh and laugh at the possibility, if only to see Crozier's face when he hears of it. If Sir John found Crozier unsuitable, how much more should he not despise James? And then it strikes him: he truly does not know the truth of his origins. No one at the Admiralty ever whispered anything to him. Sir John never enquired about him (but why would he not?), and has no idea he's been sitting with a baseborn man all these nights. Otherwise he would not ask that they spend so much time together. He would keep James at arm's length. Heavens, Sir John might not love him at all. This pains James far more than he ever considered. He blinks.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir. I am most unworthy of her favour," he says, with a hint of melancholy. He could not bear Sir John's disapproval, or the look in his eyes at finding himself betrayed by him. Never. Never again. (Again?)

"Nonsense," says Sir John. "I will help you. God willing, when this is over I will retire and you will come live with us."

James looks at him, considering it for just one moment despite all of his instincts shouting at him to run from this. 

"That would be lovely indeed," he says, still too sad for feigning otherwise. "And I would be sincerely delighted. But consider this, sir: the affection you and I have for each other may not translate into your niece's favour for me."

"Yes, I suppose you are right." Sir John takes the pipe off his mouth to smile at him. "Well. You can hardly blame an old man for trying to keep you close to me."

James straightens as he recognises the dangerous tension rising between them again.

"You wish to keep me, sir?" he asks, more hopeful than he intended. 

"I do, James. Of course I do."

James glances away in confusion as he feels a wave of gratitude swallow him whole. No one has ever wanted to keep him. Good grief, he is raving drunk to be reacting like this, his inappropriate stiffness notwithstanding - like a lost puppy, willing to follow anyone who shows him some affection. 

"I would stay with you, for what it's worth," he confesses. His voice sounds hoarse. "Whether your niece wants me or not."

Sir John smiles at him. For a long moment they stare at each other. As he looks into his eyes, James is seized by the strange sensation that he's looked at him like this before, in some place remote and inaccessible, somewhere far beyond his comprehension but painfully beautiful - somewhere lost to him forever.

Dundy is right. He is growing ridiculously infatuated with Sir John.

But just as this revelation strikes him, Sir John clears his throat. "As pleasant as tonight has been, I think I will retire now. This cold is wearing on me."

"Of course." James stands, going to great lengths to conceal his erection. "Good night."

He barely makes it back to his own cabin in time to undo his trousers and pull his hardened prick out of its uncomfortable confinement. He thinks of Dundy, briefly, wondering whether he might not just ask him for a helping hand as he often does, but no: he would be out of place here. This arousal is Sir John's, and Sir John's alone. James has to bite his lips not to moan at this thought. He gives himself a few vigorous jerks, achingly on the edge already. He leaked into his drawers a little when he was in the great cabin, and some of his seed now smears down onto his fingers, giving a most welcome wetness to his ministrations.

Panting, he frigs himself harder, and a series of obscene thoughts cross his mind with blinding intensity: James never had a mother, but if he had one, he'd make Sir John fuck him senseless on her bed; James, against a wall, Sir John's large hand covering his prick and cupping him firmly under a tunic like those they wear in his dreams; Sir John opening the door and discovering him touching himself as he is now, mouth agape, unable to tear his eyes from his swollen cock. This last one makes him spill: his seed lands on the wall he shares with Sir John's great cabin. Dizzy, unsteady on his feet, he watches it drip down on the wooden planks as he pumps himself dry. 

If only Sir John knew what he's just done. James bites his bottom lip and lets go of his spent prick, the pleasure almost too intense to bear.

* * *

  
  


In scarcely less than twelve hours it has all gone to hell. Lieutenant Gore is dead, devoured by a bear. A Esquimaux man dies on their ship. His daughter, also on the ship, is in understandable hysterics over his death (A woman! On the ship!). The men's morale is rapidly falling. James has never seen Sir John so disturbed - if Crozier's appalling manners had him vexed for weeks, to James's outrage, he is now positively enraged over the day's developments. James joins him in the great cabin, uncertain about the reception he will get. Sir John is seated at the centre table, the Bible opened in front of him. He holds a pen in his right hand, but he isn't writing. The sheets of paper remain bare. His pipe, too, is unlit. 

"Sir?" James calls from the door. "Do you have need of my company?"

Sir John meets his gaze, and something akin to relief crosses his otherwise sombre features.

"But of course," he says. "Now more than ever. Your company is always welcome."

James sits on the nearest chair, but even this feels too far. He drags his chair a little closer, so as to shorten the distance between them as much as decency allows. Sir John is reading Genesis. 

"I am trying to find a suitable passage for Graham's eulogy," he says, "but my mind draws a blank when I try to put any significance to my words."

"It has been a most trying day and the hour grows late. You may have more success tomorrow, with a clearer mind."

"I do believe you are right," Sir John says with a sigh. 

He runs a hand on his hair. He has been doing that a lot today: his hair is a complete mess, uncombed and utterly in disarray. Very unlike himself. There's a certain intimacy in seeing him so distraught, so vulnerable. James savours it and dreads it both, and wishes he were older - wishes _he_ were the Captain, to shield Sir John from unnecessary hardships.

"Shall we play a quick game of chess? I will let you win this time, I promise," he offers.

At least it draws a smile out of Sir John.

"I can think of no greater indignity than winning because you took pity on me."

"It isn't pity that moves me. I am trying to cheer you up."

"There will be no cheering me up tonight, I'm afraid. But I thank you for trying." He shakes his head. "Where have I gone wrong, James? Do not answer that. I know exactly the moment where I condemned us to this nightmare."

James leans closer to him and dares to reach for one of his hands, slow enough that Sir John may withdraw it if the contact is unwelcome. But it doesn't seem to be: Sir John grips his hand tight, like a man drowning.

"And yet all nightmares end in the morning," James tells him. "You made the best decision possible based on your current understanding of the situation. That is not a fault of yours. It is what any great leader would have done."

"A great leader! Your affection for me blinds you. Just today I lost an invaluable man and gained a dozen troubles."

James holds his hand tighter. "Then let his death not be for naught: we shall honour his memory in succeeding where he tumbled. Sir John, you told me not long ago that Our Lord Father would see us through, whatever morning brought. This is still true today."

"Yes," Sir John says. "Yes, I suppose you are right. The Lord is always with us, as He was with Jacob in the desert." He meets his gaze. "What would I do without you, dear James?"

They are sitting close enough that Sir John can reach with his free hand to pat him on the cheek. James's eyes flutter closed, briefly, and he cannot help himself: he leans against the touch, so that Sir John is cupping the side of his face. James sees surprise in his gaze, but the hand does not pull back. And then Sir John strokes him: his thumb runs on James's jaw, deliciously slow in its caress, brushing some of his long hair out of the way. 

But some awareness seems to cross Sir John's gaze all of a sudden, and he withdraws his hand.

"I must beg you to leave me," he says, fleeing James's eyes. "I would like to get back to the eulogy, or failing that, to the Scriptures for inspiration."

"Very well," James says, and stands.

Now that he is up on his feet, he touches Sir John on the shoulder as a manner of goodbye. But at the same time, still seated, Sir John reaches to touch him on the back: both their gestures become confused and they end up caught in a half-embrace. James stays very still, but Sir John, whether by design or by accident, pulls him closer, the pressure of his large hand on the small of his back exquisite. It causes him to lose his balance a little, so he bends one knee to steady himself. James doesn't know what comes over him next: he flexes his other leg and ends up on his knees right by Sir John's chair. This is too bold, even for him.

"What are you doing," Sir John asks, bewildered, wide-eyed.

James is incapable of answering. His mouth has gone dry. Eyes closed, he presses his forehead to Sir John's thigh. He can feel the muscle tensing against him, strong and stout, and he can hear how Sir John's breath quickens. What _is_ he doing? On some level, James meant this as a vaguely comforting gesture, as a way of showing him the extent of his devotion, but he is painfully conscious of the sexual implications of this compromising position. He doesn't dare to move, expecting to have his head pushed away at any moment. And Sir John's hand does come to rest on his head: his large fingers thread into James's hair, holding a handful of it in a firm grip. He pulls: James's head is forced back, and he must look up into his eyes. 

Sir John looks terrified. 

James wants to say, _It's alright, Sir John_ \- to reassure him that the world will not, in fact, end, but he has little faith in that statement himself. Before he can manage to say anything, Sir John pushes his head down again, still holding him by the hair, but because he has spread his legs now James ends up with his forehead against the inside of Sir John's thigh. The fabric of the trousers is just as heavy as on the outside of the leg, but he is very aware of the softness of the muscle here, quivering under his mouth as he presses his lips to it in a secret kiss. He can smell Sir John, he can feel the warmth of his crotch, and through his half-closed eyes James thinks he can make out the outline of his cock. 

He puts a hand on Sir John's knee both for balance and to allow himself this simple pleasure, but this gesture seems to startle the Captain. Sir John stands up quite abruptly, as if his seat were on fire, and he knocks his chair down in the process. He takes several steps backwards. James loses his balance and lands on all fours. Seized by panic at the sight of the horror in Sir John's gaze, he scrambles up to his feet.

"Begone, my boy," Sir John tells him, forcefully. "Get out of here, before we damn ourselves to Hell!"

"Sir," he starts saying, but Sir John does not let him finish.

"Out!" he bellows, and James can do little else but to obey.

* * *

  
  


Sir John refuses to see anyone before breakfast the next morning, and that includes James. He is not to be disturbed until he finishes the eulogy for Lieutenant Gore. Crozier, uncharacteristically gracing Erebus with his presence, seems to think he is above such a command, and steps inside the great cabin anyway. Not even the satisfaction of hearing the vicious dressing down that Sir John hands Crozier, or seeing his mortified face as he exits the great cabin, are enough to raise James's spirits. It's not like Sir John to lose his temper like this.

A terrible dread has been lingering in James's throat all morning. He would not dare to raise the issue with Sir John unbidden, despite how desperately wishes to present his apologies, so he must wait in stoic silence. What a gross miscalculation on his part, to let his true nature be seen by a man so deeply religious, with such impossibly high moral standards. For all that he profited from Barrow's misfortune James is no less foolish than he was. 

And yet. He knows what he saw in Sir John's gaze. And he did push him down against his thigh. He wanted this as much as James did, for the space of one instant. 

When Sir John exits the great cabin, dressed in his heaviest coat, he does not spare a glance for James.

"I will go see the men at the hunting post before the service," he announces as he starts climbing up the ladder to the deck. "Commander Fitzjames, see to the ship until my return," he adds, still not once looking in James's direction.

James gestures for the steward to bring him his coat as he follows him outside.

"I will join you, sir," he tells him, but Sir John makes a dismissive gesture.

"Did you not hear me, Commander? See to the ship in my absence. I shan't be long."

Lost, stunned, James watches him from the deck as he steps out into the ice.

It is the last time he ever sees him.

* * *

  
  


So much blood. A trail of angry red tainting the white snow.

James shouts Sir John's name over and over, and then screams into the accursed hole bubbling with crimson, regret and grief chilling him to the bones.

_I never ever wanted him to die._

* * *

  
  


Sir John, dead. 

Dead.

 _Do not cry in front of Crozier_ , he begs himself, _do not cry in front of the other officers_. He manages to, just barely. One by one they leave the great cabin - Sir John's cabin that is now to be James's. Only Le Vesconte stays with him, and only in front of him does James allow the tears to spill in earnest. He cries for what seems like hours, pressed against Dundy as to not be heard by the men. 

"I think I loved him," he confesses in a muted sob.

"Oh, Jamesey," Dundy whispers against his hair as he rocks him back and forth in his arms, telling him all kinds of sweet nonsense. "Steady on, me old boy. You'll be alright, my darling. Everything's going to be just fine."

James does not believe him at all. But he appreciates the effort.

The berth still smells of Sir John, but he does fall asleep when Dundy puts him to bed. Wrapped in the blankets as if wrapped in Sir John, James dreams. Sir John as Caesar, dressed in the white toga of the Senate, lies on the floor in a pool of blood. In front of him, James, as Brutus, holds a knife in his trembling hands. 

This is all his fault. 

It has always been his fault.

* * *

  
  


It's an abomination to suffer hearing Sir John's last words read with Crozier's detestable accent and with no grand cadence whatsoever. If he were alive, Sir John would hate it too.

But he spoke of dreams in the eulogy that became his farewell. James treasures this. _I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places, wherever thou goest; for I will not leave thee_ , Crozier reads, and James blinks not to falter.

Incidentally, the dreams stop that night. 

* * *


	4. World War I (1916)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, I was very busy last week!
> 
> No GIF for this chapter either, though I did try very hard to find Ciaran in a war movie (and couldn't). Here's [Tobias in WW2](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2baf386ae158c34226077d97c459d6f4/d0d90f5e96459d2b-fd/s540x810/05d442daacc8d91988b71a4d0c7dba60f81ad91c.gif).
> 
> Émile Juneau = Brutus, Captain Cayet = Caesar.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

* * *

_1916_

To say it's cold in the trenches would be a bitter understatement. Émile makes himself as small as possible to retain more heat, knees up to his chest as he holds his rifle the best he can, but it's a futile endeavor in this never-ending rain. He's shivering. The freezing water slips inside the uniform and soaks him through. The mud, clinging heavily to his boots and trousers, only adds to his misery. It isn't just mud: there's blood in that mix too, blood from his own mates that they've been losing by the dozens day after day in this battle that will not end. The trenches, instead of being a safe place where they may retreat to recover after an offensive, are monstrous mouse-traps, stinking of blood, powder, and death. Verdun is Hell on this Earth.

"Have you eaten today?" Captain Cayet asks him, startling him out of his stupor.

Émile didn't hear him moving closer. He hardly hears anything that isn't an explosion or the screams of the wounded these days. Still, his presence is a welcome comfort. He meets his gaze with tired eyes and thinks the Captain looks like shit, his face covered in non-descript grub than may be dirt or powder - but he knows he doesn't look any better himself.

"No, Captain," he mumbles.

The idea of eating in this filth is revolting. And yet when Captain Cayet hands him a piece of bread he devours it at once. It's a little stale, but he hardly notices that anymore. He takes all that he's given, and it's not until his third helping that he realizes he's eating all of the Captain's own ration.

"Eat, Émile," he tells him, his eyes full of kindness. "You've grown too skinny of late."

Has he? Émile does not remember what he was like, _before_. He hardly remembers anything of _before_. He used to repeat it to himself every night, afraid to forget (son of Marc and Émilie Juneau, born in Nantes, no brothers or sisters, orphaned at 5, drafted at 19), but at some point the nights bled into days, and what he was _before_ doesn't seem to matter anymore. All that matters is staying alive, and Captain Cayet sees to it. He's taken Émile under his wing from the day they arrived in Verdun. They've lost most of the battalion by now, but reinforcements are due soon ('soon'), and he and a handful of men must hold their position until then, lost and forgotten so far from any semblance of civilization and civility that they may as well be stranded somewhere in the North Pole.

"You should sleep while you can," the Captain tells him. "I just received the reconnaissance report, it should be a quiet afternoon."

"Can't sleep," Émile answers, sounding like a sullen child. But he's so tired. So tired and fed up with this war.

"Come here."

The Captain slides even closer, opening an arm for him to lie on. Émile doesn't hesitate. He leans against him, resting against his chest. The smell is awful, but it's warm. The Captain slides his arm around him, keeping him close, shielding him from the rain. He's very... solid. Émile loves this. He clings to him, fists closed tightly on the lapel of the green uniform. 

"What were you before, Captain?" he asks. "Do you still remember?"

He doesn't get an immediate answer. He can feel the Captain breathing, his chest going up and down at a steady pace. His heart, too, drums a comforting rhythm.

"I was in the Army before the war too," he says. "It was the job I chose. What I always wanted to do."

Émile frowns. This revelation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Did you want to fight?" he asks, sullen again. Disdainful.

"Yes," the Captain says. He sounds dejected. "I thought I did. We all did. We had no idea. We had no idea it would be like this."

Mollified, Émile closes his eyes and eases more against him. No sane man would want to fight like this. Not one. 

But Captain Cayet isn't ready to drop the conversation, apparently.

"Why do you ask? Have _you_ forgotten what you were?"

Émile reaches for the wearied sentence in his mind (son of Marc and Émilie Juneau, born in Nantes...), but it makes little sense, all of a sudden. He blinks. Wasn't he the son of a painter? Or of a sailor? There's a man in his memories, a man who was not his father but who loved him like one, or loved him more than one. He has Captain Cayet's face. Émile painted with him. Read to him on a ship. Played chess with him with foreign, round figurines. Nothing makes sense. But there was blood. There was always blood. His head aches, all of a sudden.

"Yes," he admits, his voice small. "I don't know what's real anymore."

Captain Cayet sighs and mutters something under his breath that sounds like 'fucking war'. He holds him tighter against him, too tight. Émile knows why he says that. Some soldiers in their battalion had to be sent home, because instead of losing a limb they lost their minds in the trenches, either rambling unstoppable nonsense or sinking into muted stupor. Émile isn't crazy. He's just... tired and confused, and his dreams have invaded his waking hours and disguised themselves as memories. There's also this... distress, this nagging feeling that there is something he must do, something he was assigned to do and that he isn't doing, but they've received no orders except to hold the position. Maybe that's how losing one's mind begins.

"When this mission is over, I'll ask them to give you leave, or to discharge you," the Captain says. "You've seen enough of this."

Instead of relief, Émile feels only panic. "No!" he says, and tries to untangle himself from his arms, but the Captain is holding him firmly. "Don't send me away from you! I don't want to be away from you. I never wanted to."

"Shh," he says. "Calm down. Just lie down here, with me. Close your eyes. Good. You don't have to be away from me, not now."

"Not ever," Émile says, stubbornly.

"Yes, my boy. Not ever." He sighs and then asks, rhetorically, "Is it selfish...? I am glad you're here, with me."

"Where else would I be?"

He feels the Captain's lips pressing to the side of his head, the part that isn't covered by the helmet. It feels so good, so good. If there wasn't a war... If there wasn't a war, they'd have never met. But if there wasn't one just now, and they could lie down like this together, somewhere nice and warm and dry, Émile in the Captain's arms until he falls asleep... In a bed, perhaps, a bed so soft one could sink in its duvet like in a bundle of feathers. He wants this. It surprises him how much he longs for this, as if he'd been longing for it all his life. It's not very normal to want to be in bed with another man, is it. But the sense of 'normal' has long deserted the trenches. Émile clings to this bed fantasy so hard he nearly feels it become real.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I visited Rome?" the Captain says, very softly.

"No, Captain. Why were you in Rome?"

"I felt like visiting it. I don't know why. Something I must have read in a textbook, long ago. It's a wondrous city. Walking on the very streets all those emperors walked, seeing all the magnificent statues, breathing History everywhere you look... The Romans were remarkable people."

"The Romans beat us Gauls," Émile objects, half asleep with the soothing voice. His eyes feel so heavy already. 

"Precisely why they were remarkable, if they defeated _us._ "

Émile laughs a little. The Captain's grip tightens on him. He can imagine it, without much effort: a city as big as Paris, full of ruins and marbled arches. It's supposed to be warm in Rome, isn't it? Warm and dry and sunny. The Captain would make a fine emperor, crowned with golden laurels, and Émile would cheer for him in the crowd. Didn't this happen once, too? What a strange sensation, to hang on to life by a thin thread, constantly on the brink of disaster, and yet being able to glimpse something that perhaps never happened.

"I wish I could see Rome again one day," Émile whispers, terribly sad without knowing why, and still confused.

"You will, my boy. I'll make sure that you will. We'll win this war and I'll take you there myself."

"I would love that," Émile mumbles before he falls asleep in the Captain's arms.

* * *

  
  


The terrible sound of a shell exploding rocks Émile awake. He's alone in the trench, unhurt, but the world around him is aflame. Panicked, he reaches for his rifle. Where are the others? Where is the Captain? He can hear the takatakatak of nearby machine guns. A surprise offensive! Inside their trench? Émile jumps to his feet and runs towards the gunfire with only one thought running through his head: find the captain find the captain find the captain. In the western part of the trench, he discovers that the combat has moved overground: under the cover of an overturned vehicle, the Captain is holding back a detachment of German soldiers - with remarkable success so far.

Frantic, still in the trench, Émile tries to determine the best course of action to help him, but a movement to his left catches his eye: a rogue German sentinel, hidden by the uneven terrain, has crawled closer, and he is taking aim squarely at the Captain.

 _I don't want him to die. I love him. I'll not let him die_ , Émile thinks and he leaps from the trench with a savage cry.

"Captain!" he screams, and jumps into the line of fire.

The bullet means for Captain Cayet catches him in midair. 

Rattled by the impact, Émile flies for several meters until he lands by the vehicle, his chest pierced by abominable pain.

"No!" the Captain shouts. "Stupid boy!"

His mouth full of blood, Émile cannot speak. He is dimly aware of the Captain dragging him back inside the trench while the gunfire intensifies.

"Why!" the Captain is shouting, trying to apply some pressure on the wound, to no avail. "You're so young! Why not let ME die?"

 _I couldn't_ , Émile thinks. _I had to save you, this time._

He doesn't know why he's thinking this, but it feels right.

It feels like peace, at long last.

The Captain is still shouting, " _You_ were not supposed to die!"

 _Neither of us was supposed to die_ , Émile answers in his mind. And this, this unlocks a secret keyhole, lifting the heavy fog of his mind at last. It was real. Everything was real. Émile wasn't crazy. He was remembering fragments of it all in his mind wearied from the war. They were both painters, and sailors, and Romans, endlessly repeating a cycle of fierce love and betrayal. And this time around, for once, for once, Émile has broken the vicious circle, and done what was right. Is he forgiven, at long last? The Captain has tears in his eyes. He wishes he could tell him. He wishes he could tell him all, but he still cannot speak. It's no effort to smile at him, at least, and it seems understanding crosses the Captain's ravaged face. How many more times are they going to do this?

 _Please_ , Émile thinks, praying like he hasn't done in centuries, _let this count. Let us both be reasonable, next time around._

This world is becoming more and more blurred. Very far, he hears more explosions, more gunfire, but he is only aware of the warmth of the Captain's arms around him before he dies.

* * *

  
  



	5. Present Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve made it this far, THANK YOU so much for reading! I never expected that such a convoluted story with a rarepair would get so much love :) Your feedback has been amazing! 
> 
> While I’m not Brazilian or Argentinian, I am Latina and I’ve had many friendships both online and offline with people from those 2 countries in the last 15+ years (one of whom danced capoeira :D) and have visited both countries several times. No disrespect intended - only huge admiration! This chapter is dedicated to kriegskrieg, who is responsible for like 60% of the characterizations of this reincarnation xD
> 
> I made this GIF from a recent interview, but I must say that for this round I was imagining them a bit younger (like their Roman selves) and a Brutus with a browner skin - like mine.

* * *

_Present Day_

It's late. 

Marcos glances outside the large window of his office as he finishes clearing his desk for the day. Night has fallen on this city that never sleeps but the financial district is still abuzz. From this height Manhattan seems a monstrous maze, the lights spreading in straight lines and out of sight, criss-crossing and never mingling - only interrupted by the dark of the buildings.

He waits until the computer has shut down completely and locks the tower cabinet with his key: it's overkill, sure, but he doesn't trust Tony Crossey, his officemate - always glaring at him for some reason or other, and delaying the numbers for petty reasons until the last possible minute (so he cannot get written up for it but late enough to make everyone's life miserable). Anyway: the day's over. Marcos rubs his face with one hand while he fingers his phone on with the other, checking his texts. Eight unread. Yes, he's late, he knows. He's always late. 

He locks the office door too and makes his way to the elevator as he shoulders his coat on, his mind already elsewhere - eager to put all this aside. But no sooner has he pressed the button that he hears the sound of a door opening behind him. Oh god, please, _no_. 

"Marcos, is that you?"

He begs himself to stay calm before he turns to face the voice with a smile.

"Yes, Mr. Cesaretti," he says, and when their gazes meet his face grows hot anyway.

Julián Cesaretti was transferred to the company headquarters straight from the Buenos Aires branch at the beginning of the year to take his seat in the Board of Directors. This threw Marcos's otherwise very boring office life into an upheaval. The suave argentine, older, tall, commanding, and painfully friendly caught his eye at once. Every time Marcos happens to look into his dark eyes he feels a profound disquiet - a need, a longing to get close to him. _You just need to get laid_ , his friends joke when he tells them about him. _Ask him to come home with you_ , they say. Marcos would never. Company fraternization policy aside, as far as he's heard from the secretaries Mr. Cesaretti isn't gay: he's divorced, he has an ex-wife. A typical Latino macho would be offended with Marcos's interest, so he avoids him studiously - flees him, really. But sometimes, like today, it's inevitable to speak to him.

"Call me Julián, please," he says, from the door of his office.

Julián, then, is wearing an impeccable beige suit and a striped brown tie, bespoke evidently. Marcos swallows and fingers his own tie (orange, flamboyant) nervously.

"Julián," he concedes, testing the way the name rolls off his tongue, as it belonged there, as if it'd always been there.

"Good," Julián says. "Do you have a moment?"

Marcos hesitates, glances down at his phone with now ten unread messages. 

"I," he mumbles. "I was on my way out. I had... plans."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I was hoping to talk to you about the financial report for this quarter, I have some questions."

Well, providing financial guidance to the members of the Board is part of his job description. Marcos cannot refuse, personal plans or not. He slips his phone in his coat pocket.

"Of course," he says, and walks over to step into Julián's office.

There's a better view than from Marcos's window: not into the city, frantic with life, but out into the sober darkness of the river flanked by lights. Other than that, the room looks perfectly ordinary, decorated with the same ostentatious yet practical furniture of all the Board members offices. Except for this: on the wall nearest to his desk, Julián has hung a photograph of Rome. An unusual picture: not of the Coliseum, as the cliche dictates, but of the ruins of the Forum in the setting sun. Marcos only knows what they are because he used to gobble down everything about Ancient Rome when he was a child, caressing the pictures on his History textbooks and dreaming to go there one day.

"My grandfather was Italian," Julián says, following his glance.

"Ah," Marcos acknowledges, and tears his gaze from the picture reluctantly.

"Hm, we should be better friends, you and I. Don't you think? We're the only South-Americans in this branch."

Marcos bites back a smile. A Brazilian and an Argentinian? He can hardly think of better unlikely friends.

"No," he says, dead serious, and he loves how Julián's otherwise impassive face reflects some surprise. So he adds, with a smirk, "I think there's a law saying we're supposed to hate each other."

Julián lets out a chuckle as he understands. "As long as we don't talk about football, I think we'll be alright."

"I have worse news for you," Marcos says, pushing his luck. " _My_ grandfather was English."

"Oh no!" Now Julián laughs, a fascinatingly cheerful laugh. "I have a double reason to hate you, then?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so, sorry."

He can tell this little repartie was designed to put him at ease before delving into serious matters, but it surprises him how easy it was to fall into light banter, as if they knew each other well enough to be playful. As if they knew each other all along. Huh.

"Marcos, somehow I feel like I can trust you," Julián says, lowering his voice. "The latest sale was a bad move financially, wasn't it?"

"We haven't finished the report, but it looks like it," Marcos says, cautious. One doesn't need to be in the financial department to see how they're bleeding dollars following the deal. "Mr. Pompfrey was warned repeatedly that this was not the ideal climate for selling but he... he decided to follow his own instincts."

"Yes, of course. Well, I have to say the Board is a little troubled with the direction the company is heading lately. We should be focusing more on the foreign markers. But Pompfrey doesn't seem very interested."

Marcos stays silent. He's noticed, of course. Mr. Pompfrey, in his late seventies, still approaches business as he did forty years ago with increasingly disastrous results. But as the CEO of the company there can be no arguing with him. It doesn't surprise Marcos that the Board is uneasy. The finance department has been uneasy for the past two years.

"There might be some changes soon," Julián continues, his gaze sharp and alert. "I'm about to close a deal with Gallic & Co., as you well know."

"A rogue deal, as Mr. Pompfrey called it."

"Maybe so. But a juicy deal. Don't you agree?"

"Yes. It's too late for this quarter, but the next one will look better because of it. The markets are already reacting favorably." Marcos glances down briefly, because it's difficult to hold his gaze for too long without getting flustered, and then he meets his gaze again. "Close the deal as soon as you can, Julián."

"I will. And I don't think it will come as a big shock to you when I tell you that when the Board next meets, there may be a... certain vote that would put the company into more expert hands."

His own, evidently. He's had time to carve some support with the other Board members. Marcos would have rather not known: now this secret is his to keep. Or to spill, if he so wanted. He's worked for the company for nearly a decade, fresh out of business school, and he's come to know the ins and outs of the complicated network of invisible loyalties. Marcos feels no particular loyalty of his own towards Pompfrey, or anyone really. But would Julián make a better CEO? He doesn't know him that well. He doesn't know him at all. And yet...

"That would be interesting," he says, noncommittally. 

"Mmhm," Julián insists, emphatic. "Bcc me that report when it's ready, won't you?"

"Yes. Of course."

What has he agreed to? Julián looks perfectly calm as he studies him, not at all nervous despite what he's admitted to him and what he's made him promise. Marcos knows these kind of men, ruthless, keen-eyed for business with the precision of a surgeon. By the looks of it, Julián is going to seize this chance and won't hesitate about it for a moment. It's just what they need. What the company needs.

Marcos finds that he wants to be on the winning side. 

He extends his hand forward, offering it for Julián to shake. He takes it wordlessly: he has a strong grip that envelops his hand completely, and yet there's a subtle gentleness to it. Marcos knows he's liking this too much, so he pretends that he isn't. He stands to leave, and Julián speaks again.

"Sorry if I made you late for your date. Please extend my apologies to her."

Oh, no. No, no, no. Marcos tries to deny it, but he stumbles on the words. What to say? 'Not her. Never _her_. Actually, I'm gay' seems a little too personal. And it wouldn't clarify the situation. He clears his throat.

"It isn't a date," he ends up saying. Julián raises an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration, so he adds, "A good friend of mine, also Brazilian, has a dance studio in Brooklyn. I'm one of the head dancers in the upcoming show."

"A dancer?" Julián repeats. He sounds shocked. "What do you dance?"

"Oh, just capoeira. I fought to have samba included in the program, but the others refused. Too much of a stereotype, apparently."

"Huh."

This is the second time tonight he's surprised the impervious Julián. Marcos smiles.

"How does someone like you end up in finance?"

"Someone like me?" Marcos repeats, perhaps a little dryly, always on the edge about these types of comments. "What do you think someone like me is?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't finance very boring, very cold and calculating? That doesn't sound like you." Julian raises his eyebrows. "A capoeira dancer."

"I don't know what you imagine capoeira dancers are like." Marcos bites back a laugh. "But yes, finances can be a little boring. That's alright. I probably had enough excitement in my past lives."

He said nonchalantly, as a platitude or a joke, but Julián's face changes at once - a flash of wonder in his gaze and his eyes seem wider, full of something irresistible pulling Marcos closer and closer with no hope of escape. 

"Well," he says, shaken by the need to get away from that troubling stare. "I've, uh, I've already missed one rehearsal this week. They'll want to strangle me when I get there."

"I'm sorry," Julián says, snapping out of whatever it was that made him look at Marcos that way. He sounds sincere. "Tell me when the show is, I might buy a ticket to make it up to you."

He'd never tell him in a thousand years. He'd fail every single routine knowing he's in the audience. Nevertheless, Marcos says, "I will," and feels cheeky enough to wink at him before he gets out of the office.

* * *

  
  


Julián's coup is masterful: with the full support of the Board after acquiring Gallic & Co., he wrestles control of the company from Pompfrey and is crowned CEO by unanimity.

To his surprise, Marcos is asked to sit in the next Board meeting - not as a voting member, of course, but as the head financial advisor. This is more power than he ever dreamed of having. He tries to keep a straight face, but when Julián meets his gaze across the meeting room and flashes him a subtle smile, Marcos can't help grinning back.

* * *

  
  
  


Julián, impossible to resist, infuses the company with new vigor. The numbers finally stop being red, and the projections start trending upwards. Marcos watches him in silence, drinking in his magnetic charm as he applies it to others (and to himself, he has to admit). His days slowly become more and more full of Julián: last-minute meetings, business lunches, dinners with shareholders. Marcos is busy, almost too busy for rehearsals. When he does manage to stop by the studio, he dances like he's never danced before, and patiently endures all of Henrique's grumbling about not showing up enough and how, apparently, he's insufferable now that he talks non-stop about his 'hot boss'.

He doesn't.

But he does think Julián is handsome, distractingly so.

During meetings, Marcos gets into the habit of looking at his hands. Julián usually keeps them folded in front of himself with regal calm, but occasionally, depending on the tone of the meeting, one of them reaches for a pen and strokes it distractedly, turning it between his fingers. Marcos could watch this all day. Enough to forget to pay attention, sometimes. But he can't afford to be distracted very often in this new position: he's supposed to make the final calls regarding the financial forecasts. Most times, it means simply saying yes to whatever Julián demands (and he demands a lot) and dismissing Crossey's doomsday forecasts.

Today, however, he wonders if they shouldn't be listening to him.

If Pompfrey was too cautious, Julián is too ambitious. He wants to strike fast and buy out all the competitors, but the buzz surrounding anti-monopoly is growing louder. They can't just have one monstrous chimeric conglomerate, accumulating branches with no sense of direction - and with only Julián at the head. Crossey might be a worrywart, and his presentations are invariably dismissed, but Marcos glances at the numbers in his own folder, and knows he must speak up before it's too late. 

"I think Tony is right," Marcos says when Crossey finishes his irritated intervention.

Crossey looks at him with some surprise. They've never liked each other. Crossey has infinitely more reasons to hate him considering Marcos was favored by the Board instead of him, with all his years of experience. But he isn't wrong.

"I must advise against this acquisition, Mr. Cesaretti," Marcos goes on, and glances at Julián.

It doesn't look like he's used to being told no. Wide-eyed, clearly surprised, Julián glares at Marcos - his gaze all but expressing, _you dare, you dare_? That dangerous, angry glint in his gaze only happens to make him more attractive. 

Marcos licks his lips, and adds, "If you're dead set on this deal, it would be better to delay it until next year - no need to send the markets into unnecessary panic so soon after your takeover."

He expected stunned silence after this, but the PR department pipes up immediately after him, sharing the same concerns, and so does Production, and several others like the burst of a dam. It's like Marcos staged his own little coup. He didn't mean it like this. 

Julián may be charming, but he can't argue his way out of so many different fronts. Evidently displeased, he has to back down - he calls off the meeting with an irritated gesture.

"Stay," he tells Marcos, before he can make it to the door.

The conference room overlooks the city from the very top of the building, giving a vague impression of floating in the air when one stands next to the windows. It's raining. Marcos slides his hands into the pockets of his suit, staring up at the dark clouds until the rest of their colleagues have left. Julián might want to fire him, he supposes. The hassle of having to look for a new job somehow comes second to the unexpected disappointment that he may never see Julián again, ill-tempered or not. He's being silly.

"You're not at all like I expected," Julián says.

Marcos abandons his contemplation out the window and turns to face him. Julián looks as calm as he sounded, though his hands are fidgeting on his lap. This alone is fascinating.

"What did you expect?" Marcos asks, though the burning question on his lips is rather, _why did you expect anything_?

"Someone easier to get along with."

"A yes-man, you mean? Someone who wouldn't argue with you? I thought you were paying me to advise you."

"I am." Julián makes a gesture with his lips, some kind of displeased pout, as he seems to ponder on the situation. 

Marcos steps closer, but because Julián is still sitting he stops at a respectful distance, not wanting to tower over him. He bends down a little so that they are at eye level. Julián's dark eyes with that soulful, penetrating gaze are disquieting to look into.

"Julián," he says, and he didn't mean for his voice to drop like this, to come out husky as if he were letting him in on a secret. "I wasn't going against you back there. I'm trying to make things easier for you, for your plans. I only want what's best for you. For us. For the company," he adds, tumbling at the end of the sentence because he's decidedly sounding much too personal.

Julián crosses his hands over his lap.

"Hm," he says. "I suppose I'll have to trust you."

"Yes!" Marcos says, lightly. "Trust the scummy brazuca to do his job."

Julián chuckles at this, and Marcos finds himself desperate to touch him in some way, any way. He extends his hand forward for a handshake, like the first day of their association. Julián takes his hand, but it isn't quite a proper handshake, it's more of a brief squeeze, a gesture in equal parts fleeting and intimate. Marcos clears his throat, finding it a bit hard to breathe, and he pulls his hand back. Julián stands up so that they are face to face - rather close. He is slightly taller than Marcos. How he stares at him! No one could bear such an intense look without glancing away - and yet Marcos holds his gaze.

"When is the show?" Julián asks, out of nowhere. 

"In two weeks," Marcos answers, a little startled with the unexpected question. He thought Julián would have forgotten by now.

"I want to come."

"Are you sure? I'm not that good."

"Oh, I'm very sure," Julián says, dropping his voice to a low whisper.

Marcos blinks. Is he imagining things? That was pretty damn flirty. This whole exchange has been a little odd, come to think about it. Be normal, he tells himself. Julián probably doesn't mean it that way.

"I can arrange tickets," he says, doing his best to sound offhanded. "For two, I suppose?"

That question is a deliberate challenge, like throwing a glove to request a duel - and Julián picks it up without much effort.

"No," he says, and smiles. He raises both eyebrows and nods. "Just one, for me."

Marcos bites his lip. "I'll see what I can do."

The next morning he slips the ticket in an envelope and drops it off with one of the secretaries. He chose a seat far enough from the stage so that he won't accidentally see Julián while dancing, but still one with a very good view. He probably won't come. A CEO of such a huge company doesn't have time to see an indie show in a small venue. 

Still, Marcus hopes.

* * *

  
  


The show goes well.

The loft-repurposed-to-theater is full to the last seat, the lighting has no last-minute hiccups, and once it begins Marcos forgets all nerves. There's a degree of improvisation, but he's been dancing with Henrique and Joaõ long enough that the moves come smoothly to him, half-dance and half-fight as they twirl to the beat of the drums with acrobatic kicks. The applause after each number is dizzying, invigorating. It's the closest to being alive that Marcos ever feels. 

Drunk on his own success, he nearly forgets about Julián. After the show is over, they're all chatting backstage (and really, backstage is too fancy a name for what used to be a staff kitchen in this warehouse) and congratulating each other when Julián steps in, a determined look in his eyes. Marcos becomes very aware that he's shirtless, that he danced all of his numbers shirtless. Julián's gaze glides down his body appreciatively - openly. Marcos tries to keep his cool as he walks over to greet him.

"You came!" he says as he nears him.

"Of course I did," Julián says, and he leans closer to kiss his cheek.

A kiss. For a greeting. Argentinian men do that, don't they? Because elsewhere it's... simply not done. Marcos just stands there, a little stunned, and even more aware of his current state of undress. He can hear a couple of his friends snickering behind them. Some whispers of _new boyfriend?_ as well. Ugh. He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, but he's more than a little charmed at the gesture.

"Don't make fun of me," he warns.

"Why would I! That was wonderful. _You_ were wonderful. Exquisite, really. I'm of a mind to fire you tomorrow so that you can be a dancer full time."

Marcos lets out a nervous laugh. "Please don't. But thank you for coming."

"No," Julián says. "Thank you."

He glances at him again, at his bare chest up and down with that searing gaze, and then he bites his bottom lip - not subtle at all. Coming from any other man, Marcos would take his cue. Still, he hesitates, not wanting to be too forward with a colleague (with his _boss_ ).

"We're going for drinks afterwards," he says anyway. "Want to join us?"

"I can't." Julián waves his phone. "I'm already late for dinner. Your bad habits are rubbing off on me."

"Ha. Well, apologize to her for me," he hazards, his heart thumping harder.

"Not a _her_ ," Julián answers. "Just some very old men interested in kissing my ass to get my money."

"Sounds like a fun time," Marcos teases.

"You have no idea," he says, an eyebrow raised, and leaves as abruptly as he came.

Marcos rubs his face with both hands before he turns to face his friends, who are all laughing out loud.

"Yes, alright, show's over," he grumbles in Portuguese.

"Was that your hot boss?" Henrique says, clapping him on the shoulder. "That man is dying for you."

"Yes it was, and no he's not. He's straight, last I heard."

"If that guy is straight, we're doing samba next show and I'll wear feathers on my head."

"Fuck off," Marcos says, and rolls his eyes.

But he has to admit there's a certain thrill now that wasn't there before. 

* * *

  
  


It takes him several weeks to approach Julián again - not because of a lack of courage, but rather because there is too much work and they are rarely alone. But he does manage to catch him one evening when most people have gone home. He peeks his head into Julián's office after a quick knock. The secretary is gone. Julián looks up from his computer, reading glasses on.

"The Libertadores final," he tells him. "The second leg is on Wednesday."

Julián smirks at him. "I thought we weren't supposed to talk about football."

"I'm feeling adventurous this week," Marcos says, deliberately flirty.

Something changes in Julián's face as he takes off his glasses - interest? Marcos would describe it as hunger, if he dared. 

"Who's playing?" he asks.

"Grêmio and River Plate." A Brazilian and an Argentinian team, he couldn't pass this up. Marcos has no particular fondness for Grêmio, but he's willing enough to cheer for them if he's watching it with an Argentinian. "I hope you're not a die-hard River fan?"

"Oh God, no!" Julián says with a grimace. "I'm with Independiente to the death."

Marcos takes a deep breath. "Well. Do you want to watch it together? At my place?" 

"That _is_ really adventurous of you." Julián bites an arm of his glasses, pensive, and Marcos forces himself to look calm, perhaps even a little smug. "Where do you live?"

"179th and Broadway."

"179th? Where the hell is that, Harlem?"

"Washington Heights, actually." Marcos lets out a chuckle. "Is that a problem?"

Julián looks bewildered. "Why do you live there? Don't we pay you enough? Don't answer that. I'll give you a raise."

"Julián. It's fine. I like it. It reminds me of home." He shrugs. "But we can watch it elsewhere. A bar close to work or something."

"Yes. Let's leave the adventurous part for something other than the venue."

Oh hoh. It's too easy to flirt with him. Marcos burns with the urge to keep going but he only bites his lip and shrugs. 

"There's a place that usually has football on, three blocks up from here," he says. "The Spanish Something. See you there at 8:30? Kick-off's at 8:45."

"Let me look at my schedule." Julián puts his glasses back on and double-clicks at something on the computer. He says, "I'm in DC that morning, but I'll be back by then." He glances up at him. "Meet you there."

On the day of, Marcos tries to focus on work, but the hours crawl by until the evening. He keeps one ear on the office chatter to find out if Mr. Cesaretti made it back, but no one seems to be talking about it. Marcos heads to the bar at the agreed time and wonders if he should text him. But he needn't have worried: Julián is waiting just outside, a tad overdressed. He's evidently just flown back from his meeting in DC. The sidewalk is crowded, full of people walking up and down, but when Julián grabs Marcos's hand and pulls him closer for a kiss on the cheek, it's as if the city disappeared behind them. As he pulls back, Marcos glances at his lips, then meets his gaze: it can't have lasted more than half a second, but Julián acknowledges it and his eyes linger on his mouth as well.

"Shall we?" he says, nevertheless, and gestures towards the bar.

The bar in question is full of business-types like themselves who work in the financial district and are in no hurry to go home. The last matches of the baseball season are playing on TV, along with some American 'football', but the smaller screen has the Libertadores game on. No one is watching it. All the better: they have a quiet corner of the bar all to themselves. Julián buys the first round, some unpretentious Californian wine, and sits himself right next to Marcos to face the TV.

"I hope you're ready to have your Brazilian ass kicked," he says, clinking their glasses together.

"Yeah, you wish," Marcos answers, tit for tat, and takes a sip of wine.

"What's your team, anyway?"

"Corinthians."

Julián hums. "So you're from Sao Paulo?"

"Yes." Marcos glances at him. "We weren't poor, if that's what you're imagining."

"I didn't say anything."

"Most people think that." Marcos hesitates, looks up at the screen then down at his wine. "I guess most people expect a romantic, I don't know, immigrant sob-story," he says. "It wasn't like that at all. Rich parents sent their only child abroad to study, he had good grades, he got an internship and then he liked it here enough to stay in the company."

"Hmm," Julián says with a nod. "Do you often refer to yourself in the third person?"

Marcos chuckles. "Only sometimes. What about you?"

"Oh, I prefer a royal we," Julián says, and it doesn't quite sound like he's joking. "My family was also well off. I studied here too, decades ago: this city was very different back then." He glances around, as if he could see it from this pub, but there are no windows. "But I liked it. Enough to return, when the occasion arose."

Marcos twirls his glass, holding it by the stem. "And where next, Julián?"

"Where next? The world, of course."

He is smiling, but Marcos doesn't doubt one moment that he means it. Nothing will stop him on his meteoric rise. Well. Maybe himself, as he's done once before. It still shocks him that his advice was followed. He wonders what Julián the man is like, whether he is very different from Julián the boss - whether he is just as relentless, just as demanding. He swallows.

"Your parents must be proud of you now," Julián says.

"They're not," Marcos answers, dryly, and stands up to get the second round.

He should tell him clearly. If anything, so that Julián can decide if he's comfortable spending time with him like this. He glances at the screen again while he's being served. The game has been fairly dull until now, and the TV is muted so he can't hear the commentators. Marcos takes both drinks back to the table.

"The reason they're not proud," he says as he slides Julián's glass in front of him, "is that they can't brag about me to the rest of the family, not fully. I'll never bring a _girl_ home. They'll never have grandchildren. Imagine how ungrateful I am in their eyes, they sent me here to study and I 'turned out' gay." 

There. He glances at Julián, who doesn't seem surprised in the least. He can even detect some sympathy in his gaze. Marcos lets out a brief sigh of relief. He did not realize he was so tense.

He adds, "We've not spoken in years. At least I can be myself here, I suppose."

"I understand." Julián takes a sip of wine. "Even so, I think it's easier for your generation. In my time, you had to get married, period."

 _Oh_. All this time he's been running under the assumption that Julián got married because he wanted to, not... This changes everything. Marcos doesn't have time to bask in this discovery because Julián slaps the table with enough force to make the wine glasses shake.

"Goal!"

Marcos looks up: yes, River has just scored - from a free kick, apparently. Ugh. He rolls his eyes.

"What do you say now, brazuca?" Julián teases, elbowing him in the ribs (rather hard, actually).

"I say the game isn't over yet."

"Pfft. Away goal, remember? You're done for." 

Marcos has never seen Julián like this, impish, almost like a child in his excitement. Very unlike his businessman self. He wants to know Julián, he realizes with a longing so painful it takes him aback. He wants to know this man and laugh with him and earn his unconditional trust. The small dent in his national pride is well worth this. 

"Bah," he huffs to save face because he's treacherously considering that he might just endure a 3-0 loss to keep Julián's high spirits. "Whatever."

He pays little attention to the rest of the match, savoring the small details that Julián is willing to share with him, drinking in their closeness this dark little bar where they sit together, sequestered from the outside world. If this were a dance, this would be the part where Julián circles around him, drawing him closer and closer. Marcos would melt in his arms and throw his head back dramatically. It makes him want to laugh.

"What you said the other day, about past lives. Did you mean it?" Julián asks as the match gallops towards minute 90.

"Not really. Why? Do you believe in that stuff?"

"I never thought about it until you brought it up. Now I can't stop wondering."

Marcos smiles at him, humoring him without making fun of him. "What do you think you were?"

"I don't know. A soldier, I think."

"That's a good bet. People had wars all the time, before."

"They still do," Julián says. "And some of them are fought behind a desk these days."

"That's true," Marcos concedes. "I don't see you as a common soldier, in any case. A General, maybe? Or a king."

"A king? Oh, I like that."

"Yeah, as if you needed to have your ego stroked." He empties his drink and glances at Julián with a smirk. "Well, I hope I was Brazilian too, in mine."

"Pshh. Even after River won tonight?"

"Of course. Besides, what is Grêmio anyway? They're not representative of all of Brazilian football. Half the team isn't even from Brazil."

"Uh huh, yes, I'm sure," Julián teases, and Marcos admits to himself that he's fallen terribly, terribly in love with him.

They stay for two more rounds after the match is done before Julián calls it a night: there's work the next day, after all. The sidewalk is no longer as crowded when they step outside. It's chilly tonight. Marcos buttons up his coat before saying goodbye, but he doesn't manage to finish the gesture: Julián grabs both sides of his face and presses their lips together. It's such a forceful, irresistible kiss that Marcos gasps into it before responding just as eagerly. It's just a kiss, just one kiss, but it feels as if the pieces of a long labored puzzle finally start sliding into place - not quite making the full picture, but giving it enough of a sense of how it should finish. Dazzled, Marcos pulls back to stare at Julián, and the intense look in his eyes shocks him all anew. He leans in for another kiss, and then another, until Julián takes a step backwards to put an end to this very public snogging. But Marcos doesn't let him step away too far: he grabs him by the lapels of his coat, keeping him close.

"Let's go to my place," he whispers, not even caring that he sounds a little needy.

Julián lets out a disbelieving chuckle. "To Washington Heights?"

"It's not so bad, really. You'd like it there." 

"I'd like anywhere if you were in it." Julián pries Marcos's hands from his coat, gently, and keeps them in his for a brief moment. "But there are many reasons why this isn't a good idea."

"Like what?"

"I'm old enough to be your father."

"So?"

Julián looks amused. "I'm also your boss."

"I don't care," Marcos says. 

He can't think of anything that would make him not want this. He leans into the touch when Julián strokes his cheek.

"Come to my place instead," Julián says. "It's closer."

He barely waits for Marcos to agree that he's already looking for a cab to flag. 

* * *

  
  


Julián lives in one of those obscenely luxurious buildings with a solicitous concierge at the front desk like in a hotel. The apartment itself is about four or five times the size of Marcos's despite being only one-bedroom, with a view to die for. Fitting for a CEO, really. And yet there's nothing too intimidating about the furniture or the decorations: it feels surprisingly cozy. Here too, Julián has hung many photographs and posters of the Rome skyline and the ruins - so many that it's closer to a quirk than a coincidence. Marcos inspects the pictures one by one, persuaded that something about them is what makes the place so welcoming.

"Have you been there?" he asks, turning to glance at Julián who is opening a wine bottle in the bar corner. The cork makes a 'pop' sound as it comes off.

"No," Julián answers. "I've had the chance to, but it never felt like the right time. I don't know why. I'll have to go soon enough."

"I always wanted to go," Marcos says, touching the frame of a photograph of a temple with a reverent finger. "I find the Ancient civilizations fascinating."

Should he admit the extent of his obsession with the Romans as a schoolboy? He would feel a little silly to, like spilling an embarrassing secret. Julián comes closer with two wine glasses. It seems like a terrible idea, after all they drank at the bar, but Marcos takes it. It will be worth the hangover. The wine is sweet, fragrant. It comes from Argentina, evidently: he had a glimpse of the bottle when Julián was opening it. Marcos wouldn't praise it out loud (good Lord, as if Julián needed more reasons to have his insufferable national pride stroked today) but he admits to himself that whatever they had at the bar pales in comparison to this wine.

"Greece too, or just Rome?" Julián asks with a strange smile, as if he knew, as if he were making fun of him.

"Just Rome," Marcos admits after one more sip. He chuckles and decides to own it. "I even wanted to learn Latin, but my school didn't offer it."

"Mine did. It wasn't as exciting as I imagined." When Marcos tilts his head, intrigued, he adds, "There's something very tragic about learning a language that's been dead for centuries and that no one will ever speak again." 

He looks genuinely melancholic when saying this, vulnerable. Intrigued, Marcos sets down his glass on a table and steps closer to him. 

"Hey," he says.

Julián seems to snap out of his reverie and focuses on him. 

"It isn't dead. Its children live on: I speak one, you speak another. As long we speak them, it isn't dead."

Marcos rests a hand on his waist. Julián sets his wine glass down too. His eyes are fire, he's so effortlessly charming. 

"Come here," he says, and pulls him into a kiss.

When Julián pulls him against him Marcos slides his arms around him - grabs at him. This kiss is much rougher than the ones outside the bar. He ends up against the wall, breathless and aching as Julián presses all of his weight on him. One of his hands slides over the curve of Marcos's ass and gives it such a firm squeeze that it draws a moan out of him. He reaches down to Julian's crotch and cups him, palming him through the smooth fabric of his couture pants until he's able to feel him warm and eager under his hand.

With his back still pressed against the wall, Marcos slides down, slow but deliberate, never breaking eye contact with Julián until he's on his knees. He unbuttons him, licking his lips in anticipation as he reaches inside the pants. Julián's cock, red and thick, very unlike Marcos's darker one, has one vein pulsating on the side of it as he pulls it out. It takes his breath away. It's a little puzzling: he's wanted him for several months now, but this degree of fascination is unprecedented. It's almost as if he were very young and foolish, still able to give with abandon without asking for much in return. 

"I feel like I've been waiting to do this for a long time," Julián says, hoarsely.

That's it, that's exactly it: now that Julián has put it into words, Marcos agrees at once. He's also been waiting for this for ages. It's a strange sensation - a bit like déjà-vu.

"Me too," he says, his lips against the droplet of precome on Julián's cock.

He hears him hiss and, encouraged, he swallows him whole, and he feels him hardening more against his tongue. Marcos loves the wet, sloppy sounds of his own mouth as it slides tight up and down Julián's cock, and its salty taste on his lips. He runs his tongue along the vein, and he uses his left hand to keep the shaft in a snug grip when he slides all the way out, teasing the dripping tip with wanton abandonment. He considers finishing him off like this, drinking him all in, but Julián steps back. Marcos looks up at him: he's flushed, wide-eyed, and he's panting so hard he can barely speak.

"My bedroom," he manages to say.

They hardly make it there - the wall, the couch, hell, even the floor seem terribly appealing as not to waste any time. But once on the bed, Julián undresses him with excruciating slowness, undoing button by button and sliding off every little piece of clothing with a look of wonder in his eyes that goes straight to Marcos's own dick. When it's done, he looks just as fascinated to see him naked as Marcos felt when he took him in his mouth. Julián touches him, gropes him, jerks him with a firm and steady pace. This teasing lasts both too long and too little: it seems they've hardly begun this and yet Marcos's had enough of it, he wants more, all of Julián, and he lets his kisses grow needier and more pleading. It isn't like him to be this vocal, to let out these ragged, needy moans just from having his dick stroked. His throat feels already strained when Julián stops touching him to reach for the lube.

There's something wild and unstoppable in Julián's eyes when their gazes meet again, and he presses two lubed fingers against Marcos - who bears down against him eagerly, shamelessly, letting him slip them inside him. The fingers slide in and out with exquisite slowness, stretching him little by little, and by the time Julián finishes fingering him to his heart's content, Marcos is little more than a raw, pliant thing craving more.

"That day when I saw you dancing?" Julián says against his ear as he grabs one of his legs and folds it up. "I wanted to do the filthiest things to you afterwards."

Marcos laughs in between pants. "Yes, well, don't assume I'm too bendy."

"Oh, I think you're bendy enough for me," he says with a smirk, and kneels between his spread legs.

Marcos gasps when Julián starts sliding into him. He is relentless in his assail, and yet there's a hint of gentleness in his eyes - his eyes! People don't look at each other like this during sex, it's too much, Julián's gaze is locked with his as he slowly pushes his way in. Choking with pleasure, Marcos just cannot glance away. When he's finally all the way inside him, Julián reaches with the hand he's not using to prop himself on the mattress and he strokes Marcos's hair off from his forehead. He pulls it a little. The gesture feels loving, familiar, as if they'd done this many times before.

"Julián," Marcos whispers, too overwhelmed to manage anything more coherent.

"Yes," Julián says, as if he understood, and he leans down to smother him with a kiss as he starts fucking him in earnest.

Marcos shuts his eyes tight. With each of the thrusts that tip him closer and closer to bliss it feels like, in another plane of consciousness, the last piece of the long-labored puzzle finally slides in its place.

* * *

  
  


"Wait, wait, another one, my face looks funny," Marcos says and extends his hand away from himself to hold the phone at a better angle.

"Good God, how many selfies are you going to take? Hurry up and let's go back to the hotel."

"Stop whining and smile."

Julián obliges and smirks for the camera. He is right, though: Marcos just can't get enough selfies of themselves among the Roman ruins. He's in love with this spot in particular, in what used to be the Forum, especially in the golden light of the setting sun. And it isn't just among the ruins, either. Walking aimlessly around Rome and letting the city spill its secrets at its own pace has been the best part of this visit. A small cafe almost hidden in a nook of a quiet street, full of businessmen in suits having a quick coffee before work; a simple restaurant stall serving cannellini beans on a crunchy, delicious bruschetta; an old fountain with a forgotten god's face at the intersection of two streets, its song ancient and grounding. Life is bustling around the ruins, people strolling in the nearby streets next to the ancient monuments with no reverence - embracing them as part of the urban sprawl with indifferent naturality. It's funny that they've not once got lost in this enormous, chaotic city. Marcos hasn't had to look at his phone for a map, navigating the streets with surprising ease, and if he happens to hesitate Julián is there to correct their course. It's only been five days and it feels like they've been here forever.

"Let's stay," Marcos says, staring at the picture he's just taken.

"They're closing in twenty minutes."

"No, not _here_ here. In Rome, I mean."

Julián glances around: none of the other tourists are paying attention to them. He rests his hand on Marcos's waist, discreetly. His gaze lingers on his lips when he speaks.

"And work?" he asks.

"I don't know. Open a headquarters here?"

"Yeah?"

One of the most surprising developments of this relationship is that Julián actually listens to him. Marcos isn't used to having so much sway over someone.

"I'd have to look at the costs," he says, more seriously. "But it doesn't have to be that. I don't really mind what we end up doing for a living. Whatever morning brings, you know? But here... here, it feels like home."

"Yes," Julián says, and looks at the ruins around them. "Yes, it does. It's not a bad idea, the European headquarters here. All the roads lead to Rome, no?"

Marcos laughs. "That's what they say."

"It could work." Julián tightens his grip on him, pulling him into a half-embrace. "We're on an upswing lately. And I'm not just talking about the company." His other hand strokes Marcos's hair, his meaning clear. "The world is ours, Marcos."

"Yes. Ours at last," he answers, and he shivers for some reason as he speaks those words. 

He glances up at the ruins of the great temple on the Capitoline Hill, feeling immensely grateful.

Elsewhere, Jupiter Maximus smiles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  



End file.
